The Illusionist Part II
by Haunted Obsidian
Summary: Dean's doing his best to take care of his little brother, all the while forgetting to take care of himself as they search for their father and hunt things that go bump in the night. deaf!Dean, diabetic!Sam, ANGST, and abusive!John; also borderline ED!Dean
1. Marchin' On

**The Illusionist Part II**

**Chapter 1 : Marchin' On**

**Warnings : Just a few F words here and there :)**

_*Italics used when Dean is speaking means he is talking with his hands rather than using his voice, unless otherwise specified._

Sam sat up, unable to sleep anymore. The bed was cold without another person in it, something he still hadn't gotten used to, even after a month. He pulled the cheap motel covers off his legs and got up, dizziness hitting him almost immediately. He tried to shake it off, but knew that wasn't going to happen. Sighing he reached over to the nightstand and retrieved a small plastic container with shaking hands, and popped open the lid. He glanced over at Dean's bed, not surprised by the fact that it was empty.

Sam had fucked up today, and majorly at that. They'd been smack dab in the middle of a wendigo hunt when he'd passed out, hadn't even seen the low blood sugar coming. He should have though, and he knew it; it was his own fault for not eating. He felt horrible for it, especially after waking some three hours later in a nearby hospital, his brother's worried face staring at him from an emergency room chair.

He'd watched Dean jump up almost immediately, and he was sure that if he hadn't been lying in a hospital bed, his older brother would've decked him, straight across the jaw. Before he'd even had the chance to apologize, Dean's fingers and lips started to move rapidly, almost too fast for Sam to keep up with.

"_Diabetic? Why the hell didn't you tell me? You could've died, Sammy_!" Dean exclaimed with his hands, his movements sharp and more pronounced than ever.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I should've-"

Dean cut him off immediately, not caring about the hurt look on his little brother's face. "Sorry? You're damn right you should be sorry! We've been on the road for over a month now, and it never came across your mind to tell me? I'm your older brother, Sam, and this is NOT something you keep from your older brother! You could've went into a coma, or into shock!"

Sam had decided to keep his mouth shut for the remainder of their time there. He'd kept it shut the whole way back to the motel as well. It was probably better that he did. Dean had stayed silent too, the way his brow was narrowed and his jaw clenched tightly in place told Sam all he'd needed to know; that he was in for the silent treatment for quite awhile, and he'd be lucky if Dean bothered to utter two words to him for the next week or so.

When they'd gotten back to the motel, Sam had made a beeline for the shower. By the time he'd come out twenty minutes later, Dean was gone, just as he'd expected.

That had been close to four hours ago, and his older brother still hadn't come back.

Rain started to tap on the window, lightning making the olive-green colored curtains glow momentarily. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Sam found himself staring out the glass, biting off a nail in the process. His brow narrowed as his gaze settled on the Impala that was still parked in front of the room.

A part of him hoped that Dean had gotten so drunk that he'd just decided to pass out in the car instead of bothering to come into the room, but Sam knew better. No matter how drunk his older brother was, he'd always come back to the room. Curiosity got the better of the youngest Winchester. He grabbed his hoodie from the back of one of the motel's chairs and took a few more glucose tablets, just in case. He pulled the hood over his head, and went outside, the cold rain coming down even harder. He went over to the car and peeked in, Dean no where in sight.

He jumped when he heard the footsteps splashing towards him. He jerked his head up, only to meet Dean's steely-eyed gaze. Sam's brow scrunched some more when he saw the state his brother was in.

Dean was soaked from head to toe, and Sam noted, how he was dressed in sweatpants, sneakers, and a hoodie three times too big for him. He didn't even attempt to count how many shirts were underneath it.

"You're supposed to be resting," Dean stated, not even bothering to sign.

"I was. Then I woke up," Sam answered simply. "Thought you'd be in a bar somewhere." He almost winced at his own words, knowing they had stung his older brother the way the rain was stinging his exposed skin now. He watched as hurt flashed across Dean's eyes before he turned away and went back into the motel room; the younger Winchester soon followed.

Sam shut the door behind him, and watched as his older brother unzipped the drenched hoodie and threw it to the floor. He knew Dean was purposely avoiding his gaze, just so he could have an excuse not to talk so Sam decided to take the initiative. Just before Dean could run into the bathroom without a second thought, Sam got in front of him, blocking his entrance.

"Get out of my way, Sam," Dean said, staring at the floor. His brow was drawn, but Sam was having nothing of it. He knew he was guilty as charged, but they still needed to talk, and Sam wasn't going to give up without a fight.

The taller of the two stood his ground, and didn't move. Instead, he extended his arms, placing one hand on each side of the doorway.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Sammy. I mean it." Sam's heart almost broke at the defeated tone of his brother's voice, but it still didn't justify the knucklehead going out and doing only God-knew-what for the past four hours.

Sam bent his knees, attempting to get in his older brother's face, but Dean only backed away a step, fists clenching his clean clothes in one hand, and his supplies in the other. He still wouldn't look at his little brother.

Sam sighed, hating it when Dean used his deafness to block him out. With a roll of the eyes, he moved out of the way, watching as his older brother moved passed him. His stubbornness getting the better of him, he followed Dean into the bathroom and folded his arms across his chest, taking a defensive stance.

Dean was about to pull off one of his over shirts when he realized he wasn't alone. "Get out. Now." He was probably supposed to sound threatening, but his voice came out tired and worn instead.

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my," Sam paused, searching for the right word. "Situation, but—"

"Situation? That's what you're calling it?" Dean scoffed, eyes narrowed in disbelief. "It's an _illness_, Sam. Not a fucking _situation_," he stated, taking a step closer to his little brother. "I'm the one that's supposed to take care of you! How the hell can I do that when I don't even know everything that's going on with you? I'm sorry that you lost someone. Really, I am, but that doesn't give you the right to try to kill yourself."

"I wasn't trying to kill myself, Dean. I just forgot to eat. That's all," Sam said matter-of-factly. He was doing his best to brush it off, and give Dean a taste of his own medicine for once, but needless to say, it wasn't working.

"That's all?" Dean's pitch heightened. "You've barely eaten anything since we've been looking for Dad. So unless you've been _forgetting_ to eat almost every meal, that's a bullshit excuse, Sam," Dean finished, green eyes full of anger and hurt.

"Like you're one to talk, Dean. You haven't been on you're usual diner diet as of late either, if you know what I mean," Sam shot back. "And you still haven't told me what the hell happened while I was gone either! Normally, you stuff your face with whatever's in front of it; and training? At," he paused to check his watch, "three o'clock in the morning? What did Dad do to you while I was gone?" Sam had no time to react to getting slammed up against the wall.

"He didn't do anything to me, Sammy," Dean stated through clenched teeth. "So you can stop with all that bullshit. We hunted, killed things, and saved people; all while you were living your cushy little life in college. Nothing else happened." Slowly, he released his grip on his little brother and turned his back on him. "Now get out, or I really will kick your ass," he muttered.

Sam stared at him for a long moment before exiting the small room, slamming the door behind him.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Dean saw the door vibrate behind him in the mirror, and all he could do was let out the breath he'd been holding in. It had been a long day, and all he wanted to do now was take a hot shower and pass out, at least for a little while before having to get up and do it all over again.

This was definitely not how he had pictured his and Sam's time searching for their father going.

He knew there would be the occasional argument; hell, what else were little brothers for? But everything that had happened that day...

One minute, he and Sam were back to back, guns at the ready, prepared to take down the nasty creature. It was almost on them when, suddenly, he no longer felt his little brother's elbow pressing into his ribs. The next thing he knew, Sam was on the ground, out cold and shaking miserably. Dean had managed to kill the creature, but not without consequences.

He grimaced as he peeled off his other two shirts that were sticking to him like a second skin and tossed them to the floor, both making _squelching _sounds when they hit. He bit his bottom lip, and with carefully shaking fingers, gently prodded the makeshift bandage on his left side.

The bastard had gotten a nice swipe in right before Dean had set it ablaze. He'd done the best he could with it at the time (patching himself up in the hospital without a nurse's help, thank you very much), but now, it wasn't so nicely held together. He peeled the medical tape off and the gauze that followed it, revealing a jagged, bloody cut that ran about four inches down his left side. In all honesty, it needed stitches, but he didn't have the needle and thread on him at the moment, and he wasn't about to step out there half-naked and bleeding just to retrieve it either. The longer he took in there though, the more Sam would become suspicious; the kid had a knack for always knowing more than he should. He wrapped the used gauze and tape with some toilet paper and tossed it in the trash can, thankful that he at least managed to smuggle in some more. He set it on the counter, planning to re-bandage it once he was out of the shower.

He slid off the rest of his clothes and got in the shower. He turned on the knob, relief washing over his face as hot water surprisingly began to flow almost immediately. He leaned his head up against the wall, closing his eyes as his overworked muscles burned under the spray. He wasn't completely sure how many miles he had ran, or how many drills he had done, but he was sure of one thing; he had to be in much better shape or he'd be no good to Sammy.

He still couldn't believe that his little brother had kept the fact that he was diabetic from him. It actually _hurt_, and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why Sam had done it. Sam wasn't exactly the type of guy that would consider himself weak just because of something like that; _he_ was. He just didn't get it, even as he stood there pretending to listen and trying his damnedest to keep up with the doctor in the emergency room going on about blood sugars and hypoglycemia and blood testing and glucose tablets; he just didn't understand.

The realization of Sam's reasoning and the icy cold water that started pouring out of the shower head hit him simultaneously; shit, maybe he did get it. If it were him, he wouldn't have told Sam. He would've hid it as long as possible too, just to keep his little brother from further worrying about him. Kind of like what he was currently doing right now, concerning another situation altogether, but still, it was about the same. Only he was going to do everything in his power to make sure Sam didn't find out about that.

S*P*N*S*P*N

He'd managed to sleep for about three hours before he woke up, remnants of a dream he didn't want to remember fading as daylight crept through the dirty motel windows. He sat up, wincing as pain shot up his side. He glanced over at Sam's bed, careful to make sure he didn't have an audience when he examined his wound. The brunette was lying on his side, facing the other way, covers pulled up almost over his head.

Dean carefully lifted up his t-shirt, letting out a sigh of relief when he saw the gauze was still white, only a small brownish spot in the middle. He stood up, knowing that the mattress's springs were probably making a bit of noise, but as he glanced over at the still sleeping form of Sam, he knew it must not have been much.

He slipped on the jeans he'd worn the day before (the ones that were tossed oh so casually on the floor), and his boots. With another quick glance, he grabbed his jacket and keys and went out the door, the frigid air hitting him like a slap in the face. He pulled the leather tighter around his thin frame and got into the Impala, recalling a diner not too far away, but not exactly within walking distance either. He started up the engine, and just for a moment, set his hand on the door, feeling the vibrations from the motor. He let it linger for a second or two more before pulling off, hoping this place had better coffee than the last.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Sam pulled the covers off his head, thankful for the moment that he was alone now, having heard Dean leave. At least he thought he had. His brow narrowed when he saw his older brother's form at the window, standing there gazing out, just as he himself had the night before. Dean's back was turned to him, the hoodie that Sam could've sworn was still a wet, sopping mess on the floor next to his bed sitting on his older brother's slightly hunched shoulders.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam asked, his voice still a little thick from sleep. He immediately wanted to smack himself, knowing full and well that Dean couldn't hear him. He got to his feet and made his way over to his brother. "Hey," he tried again, laying a hand upon Dean's shoulder, the older of the two's whole body jerking backwards in response. Sam's brow narrowed, not expecting that sort of reaction from his big brother. "What's wrong with you?" Sam wasn't ready for the wide-eyed, open mouth struggling for words response. "Dean?"

"I-I'm sorry," Dean stuttered, green eyes glimmering with fear. "I-I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to."

"Didn't mean to—what the hell happened to your face?" Sam interrupted himself, finally seeing the state his brother was in. His left eye was blackened, and there was a large purple bruise taking up the better part of that side of his face as well. There was a gash near his eyebrow, and a cut on his chin. His lip was busted too. Sam's eyes traveled further downward, his heart quickening its pace when he saw the red and purple marks that looked like a necklace decorating Dean's throat. They disappeared under his many layers of clothing. "Dean, what the hell happened to you?"

Fear was loud and clear and present ever still in his terrified eyes as he kept stumbling on his response. "I won't do it again, sir. I-I'm sorry."

Sam went to scratch his head in confusion but his hand only made it half-way, his older brother lifting his own arm to shield himself. Sam's mouth fell open, pain crisscrossing throughout his chest when he saw Dean's sleeve slide up, revealing black and blue bracelets of bruises. He immediately grabbed his brother's arm which he soon realized was the worst thing he could have possibly done, judging from Dean's reaction.

"No! Please!" Dean cried out, throwing both arms up in front of his face. "I'm sorry! So sorry..." Tears started to stream down his gaunt cheeks.

Sam's face scrunched up in worry and bewilderment, drawing his arm back and away from his brother. "Hey, Dean, it's okay. There's nothing to be sorry for."

"I won't forget next time," Dean mumbled and Sam's eyes widened in horror as blood started to leak from an unseen wound on his chest. Before he knew it, there was a puddle on the floor and his brother was laying in it. "Dean!" he shouted. "Dean!"

Sam's head popped up from underneath the sheets, heart racing and sweat drenching his shirt. He ran a hand through his shaggy mane, the dream still fresh in his mind. He nearly fell out of the bed when the door opened, Dean entering carrying a plastic bag with a couple of Styrofoam containers in it. The older of the two shut the door, and paused when he saw the state his little brother was in.

Dean set the bag down on the table near the door, one eyebrow lifted in confusion and concern. "_You okay_?" he asked, fingers moving slowly and carefully as he made his way over to Sam, not even bothering to take his jacket off.

All Sam could do was stare open-mouthed at his older brother for a moment, seeing him as he saw him in his dream. He shook his head and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine, Dean," he finally answered, noting the subtle distance Dean was keeping between them.

"You sure?" This time Dean spoke, and there was a definite note of concern in his voice.

"Yeah, I'm sure." Sam didn't feel like bugging him again about the past three years, not when the middle Winchester was actually still talking to him and not ignoring him like one of the grains of salt that made up their usual places along the window sills and doorways. "So, breakfast?" Sam asked, nodding towards the bag. He wasn't all that hungry, but he knew he still needed to eat.

"Uh, yeah," Dean nodded, grabbing the bag and taking Sam's container out. He handed it to him, and then took out his own. He sat down across from Sam on his own bed and finally pulled off his jacket.

Sam watched with observant eyes as he started to eat slowly, cutting his stack of pancakes into small, un-Dean-like bites. There wasn't even any syrup on them, but Sam kept his mouth shut. At least he was eating something.

The brunette was about to take a bite of his omelet when Dean's voice quickly cut through his thoughts. "Don't you have to test your blood and take your insulin first?" Sam paused, fork almost to his mouth when he realized his error.

"Yeah," he nodded, his face reddening slightly at the admonishment. He'd been doing the same routine for the past two and half years, and suddenly his older brother finds out and he needs reminding? He rolled his eyes at himself and reached into his duffel, extracting his blood testing kit, a needle, and his insulin. He was about to get up and head for the bathroom like he'd been doing before every meal since they'd been on the road together when Dean stopped him.

"You can do that in front of me, you know," Dean said, green eyes ever vigilant. "It's not like I'm afraid of blood or anything." He took a few more bites of his breakfast, then added, "Besides, it wouldn't hurt for you to show me how you do it. That way, you know, just in case..."

Sam felt a small smile tug at the corner of his lips, wanting to laugh at Dean's off-hand way of asking for his help.

"It's fairly simple, actually," Sam explained, glancing at Dean as he unzipped the small black case and took out the instrument used to draw blood from his finger. His smile grew the tiniest bit bigger when he noticed the eagerness on his older brother's face. "I take one of these," he went on (making sure to enunciate each word so Dean could understand him because signing wasn't an option at the moment) and opened a small, plastic black canister and pulled out a test strip. "And I put this end in the machine," he leaned over to show Dean the black and white striped tip. "I wait a few seconds until its says it's ready, then I poke my finger with this. A normal reading should be—"

"Between eighty to a hundred and twenty," Dean mumbled, not realizing he had voiced the information he'd read on one of the many pamphlets on diabetes from the hospital.

"Right," Sam agreed, white teeth peeking out between his lips as the grin grew a little wider. "Between eighty and one twenty. Sometimes a little higher or lower, depending on the person." He paused to prick his finger, then placed the digit up to the clear end of the strip, it soaking up the blood easily. They both watched as it counted down from five to one, then it flashed his sugar amount, 105. "Since it's normal, I take about ten units of this," Sam instructed, holding the little clear bottle of insulin up. He uncapped the needle and pulled the plunger back to the 10cc mark, then pushed it in and withdrew the insulin. "Normally, I inject it into my arm or stomach, but I can put it anywhere there's fatty tissue." He paused when he heard Dean snicker. "What?"

"Not much of that on you except for right here," Dean quipped, pointing to his head with a grin.

"Funny," Sam said with a roll of the eyes before lifting up his shirt. Dean was right though; there was hardly any place for him to inject himself without hitting muscle. He took a deep breath, and pinched a bit of skin, wincing as it did exactly what he didn't want it to.

"You okay?" Dean asked, concern laced throughout his tone. When Sam looked up after he was finished, his older brother was leaning half-way off his bed, brow drawn in concern.

"I'm fine." Sam forced himself to smile as he put the kit away.

"Whatever you say," Dean mumbled, easing back onto his bed, still keeping a wary eye on his little brother's mid-section.

"I really am fine. It doesn't hurt every time. Promise." Sam paused for a moment, but still made sure he had his brother's attention. "I'm sorry, for not telling you. I should have and—"

"_It's cool, Sammy_," Dean signed, sticking the tip of his thumb to his chest and wiggling his fingers slightly. _"Be back in a minute. Bathroom,"_ he said, forming his hand into a "T" shape and shaking it back and forth a bit. He got up and disappeared into the other room, closing the door behind him.

Sam sighed and shook his head. "Typical," he muttered, hating the fact that his older brother never talked about things at all. Not important things anyway. He could spend the better part of a day describing every detail about some girl he'd slept with five years ago, but when it came to serious matters, talking with his voice or hands was simply out of the question.

The youngest Winchester was about to take another bite of his breakfast when he heard a buzzing noise followed by a single, muffled ring. He looked around the room, searching for the origin of the sound when his gaze landed on the nightstand on the other side of Dean's bed, his older brother's phone laying face down on it. Knowing that there were only a few select people that actually had the number, he got up and hurried over to the nightstand and picked the phone up. He flipped it open, a set of coordinates staring back at him from the screen. He heard the bathroom door open and Dean's footsteps come up behind him. He turned and looked at his older brother, confusion set upon his face.

"_Who is it?"_ Dean asked, placing the tip of his thumb on his chin with his index finger sticking straight out and then bending it twice.

Sam opened his mouth a few times before finally letting any words come out of it. "I think it's Dad."

**A/N : And there you have it folks, the beginning of the sequel. Took me long enough, huh? ;) Hopefully, it was satisfactory. I'm in the middle of writing for a short story competition, and a book of short stories, and then I was hit with the want to write this, so...yeah. I guess this will be an AU to season one. Something like that anyway. Plenty of angst and such on the way, and plenty of brotherly interaction as well. If I don't put out another chapter before Christmas, then have a early Merry Christmas! :) Or whichever you choose to celebrate, if you do at all. **


	2. Come Lay Down

**The Illusionist Part II**

**Disclaimer : This is a sequel, so if you haven't read the first one, you might want to check it out first. Or not. :D**

**Warnings : Abuse, angst, language **

**Chapter 2 : Come Lay Down**

His heart was pounding in his chest, and even though he couldn't hear it, he could feel the damn thing trying to jump out and leap away. Dean shrank back towards the car, clutching his Remington twelve gauge in one hand, and clenching his other hand so tightly that his nails had made four tiny crescents in his palm. He could see his breath spiraling out from between his lips in quick, fleeting wisps, dissolving into the air as his father's dark form came through the gates of the cemetery. Dean didn't need moonlight to see the look on John's face. He knew it was angry, red, and more than likely, painted in a shade of hate. He couldn't help but back up further, the cold steel chilling his skin even through his many layers. He bit his bottom lip in fearful anticipation, his breath stilling when the older man came to stand a mere foot away from him, appearing exactly as Dean had suspected.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" John's angry voice rang out loud and clear in the frigid night air.

Dean tried his best to stop shaking, but it was hard when it was so cold and what he had just seen...or rather who... Before he knew it, John's calloused hand connected with his cheek, pain immediately radiating up and down his jaw bone because when John smacked, he made sure the heel of his hand made it there before his fingers. The force threw the younger hunter back against the car; something that was becoming increasingly easier with the more weight he lost, though he knew his father probably pretended not to notice just as he himself did.

"You could have gotten the both of us killed back there! Do you not realize that?" the older man boomed, still unable to come to the truth that no matter how loud he shouted, his son would never hear him.

Dean stared at him with wide, green eyes, involuntary tears swimming in them. After a few moments, he finally managed to force out some words. "He...He looked like Sammy." His skin was pale, even in the dim lighting, and the shadows under his eyes stood out worse than ever. "I just..." He flinched when his father's large hands suddenly gripped his jacket, pulling him up and closer to the older man.

"You know that wasn't your brother. You know that, Dean! You need to cut out this bullshit, and grow up! When did you become so weak? Huh?"

"I'm not." His voice was barely above a whisper as he stared into his father's scowling gaze, trying desperately to hide the wince that flashed across his features when he felt John's grip tighten. "I'm not," he repeated, almost too low for John to hear.

"Then quit acting like it! I taught you to be strong, and to always be on your guard! Instead, one look at that kid's face, and you froze!" John exclaimed, throwing Dean back against the Impala, eyes narrowing when he heard the metal bend behind his son.

A look of confusion spread over Dean's face when he saw that his father had become even angrier, though the man's grip had loosened. He felt John jerk him aside, so he moved, finally seeing what his father saw.

_Shit._

Dean felt his chest tighten when the realization hit him; his father was more worried about the state of the car than the state of his son.

_He's just mad. That's all. This'll all blow over soon, and everything will be okay..._

But Dean was smarter than that, even though he repeatedly kept telling himself that denial was just a river in Africa. It wasn't okay. Not at all, not even a little.

The next thing he knew, his father's fist was making impact with his stomach and then his ribs. He doubled over, a cough escaping his lips, spittle flying everywhere. John didn't stop though; he punched the younger hunter again and again until Dean's knees gave out, sending him to the concrete ground below. Dean's vision was swimming when he felt his father's hand wrap around his chin and jerk his head in the older man's direction.

"Get up..."

Dean shook his head, though remnants of the memory were still clear in his mind. He clenched the steering wheel harder, his prominent, stark-white knuckles contrasting greatly with the black material. He glanced over at the passenger seat, a small smile turning up the corners of his lips.

Sam was fast asleep, head leaning on the window and mouth starting to hang open. Dean laughed silently at the sight of his little brother; he hadn't seen him that relaxed since... It had been awhile. The tiny grin slowly faded though as Dean got a good look at him. There were hints of dark circles under the brunette's eyes, and he was still on the thin side, his loose clothes all too evident of that fact. He wasn't relaxed; he was just flat out exhausted.

Dean glanced back at the two-lane highway, though his mind was anything but focused; he just kept to the routine of staying within the white lines.

His thoughts drifted back to his little brother's life for the past three years and what it would have been like if he wouldn't have interfered with it.

_He'd probably still be happy and not itching to get away from the likes of your sorry ass._

Dean clenched his jaw, hating that sometimes that little voice in his head sounded way too much like his father's. Even after all these years, he could still remember how deep (and at times, gravelly) it sounded, especially when he was angry. His thoughts drifted, and he wondered what Sam's sounded like now. He imagined it was deep and smooth, and probably soothing too. He could only recall when it was still high-pitched and the main words that the kid spoke were "Dean!" and "I'm hungry."

He sighed, knowing he was inadvertently avoiding the main issue he was supposed to be focused on.

It had been three days since they'd gotten the text, presumably from their father, and it had taken Dean one full day to convince Sam that they needed to follow the lead and go there. Sam being Sam finally agreed, albeit after much reluctance and a show of stubbornness.

There was still approximately three hundred miles away, located in Helena, Montana. They'd done some research before hand, and found out that there had been a rash of suicides at a college there, four students leaping to their death in less than two weeks. Neither were sure what to make of it, but it definitely sounded like something worth checking out.

Dean couldn't help but wonder about their father and his reasoning for sending them there. He'd tried to reply to the text, but it hadn't gone through because of it being an unknown number. He was pretty sure Sam had tried to find out their dad's number via his special _know-it-all-little-brother-skills_, but he hadn't had any luck either.

He sighed silently, and glanced back at Sam, guilt gnawing at his chest. He hated keeping things from him, he really did, but he knew if Sam found out everything, he'd be trying to kill their father instead of save him. And that's the last thing Dean wanted. He wanted them to get along for once instead of the both of them yelling until they couldn't talk anymore. He hated the way they would argue for hours on end, and how they just assumed he didn't know what was going on, but he was deaf, not stupid.

Then there were the times when he actually stepped in and tried to separate them or at least get them to stop, and when that happened, things only got worse. Sam would accuse him of taking his father's side, and vice versa. He hated always being in the middle of the two, literally and figuratively.

He hoped that maybe when they finally did find their father, that he'd be happy to see Sam and not as angry as he was before. He wished that they could be a family again. But Dean knew that hoping was mostly futile, and wishes were for little kids who didn't know any better.

He checked his watch, his eyes widening slightly when he saw that he'd been driving for six hours straight without stopping. He hoped Sam hadn't missed one of his insulin shots because of his inability to pay attention to the time.

It wasn't long before he came across a town, some place called Blackfoot, ID when he pulled over, stopping at the first diner he saw.

"Sammy, hey, wake up," he said, shaking his brother's arm. It took a moment before Sam opened his eyes, looking around dazedly until his gaze met Dean's.

"Are we there yet?" Sam asked, glancing out the window, his brow narrowing when he saw signs about 'The World's Biggest Potato'. Dean started to worry when he saw Sam's mouth curl into a smile, and laughter spill from between his lips. "Look, Dean, it's a giant potato," he chuckled, pointing to the sign with a giant spud on it.

"C'mon. I think we need to get you something to eat," Dean stated, removing the keys from the ignition and hurriedly getting out of the car. He opened the passenger side door and wrapped a hand around Sam's right arm, not expecting his little brother to shove him away.

"Sammy-"

The grin was gone from his little brother's face, replaced with a scowl that looked eerily like their father's. "Don't, Dean!" Sam snapped, blue-green eyes angry and accusing. "I can do it all by myself, just like you always can. Always do everything on your own. What do you need me for?" Sam muttered, Dean unable to read half of what he said.

The older of the two tried again when he saw his little brother's unsuccessful attempts to exit the Impala only to be pushed away yet again.

Even though the town looked on the small side, there were still plenty of people walking along the streets due to it being midday and Christmas being less than three weeks away; and most of those said people were now staring at the two young hunters, forcing Dean to nod nervously at a few passing by.

"Sammy, I think your blood sugar's low. You need to eat something right now so come on." He hoped he was sounding forceful and commanding enough to catch his little brother's attention, to drag him out of the low spell he was falling into.

"Whatever," Sam murmured, eyebrows still narrowed in irritation. He held out his hand and Dean could see how badly it was shaking.

Without hesitation, Dean reached for it, but Sam jerked it back yet again and burst out laughing.

"Ha! Gotcha! You almost had me..."

Dean could feel his heart starting to race, not liking at all what this was becoming. He knew he had to get some sugar into his brother like right now or he was going to black out again. And that wasn't going to happen again under Dean's watch. His eyes drifted to the inside of the car, searching for some type of sugar-boosting substance.

There were a few empty bottles tossed on the floorboard, so those were of no help. His gaze flicked to the backseat, and he immediately flung open the back passenger door, retrieving the half-empty orange juice container. He opened it and gave it a quick sniff (to make sure it was still drinkable) before holding it up to Sam's lips.

"Drink," he ordered, not liking the pouty expression that was crossing Sam's visage. He decided that he was going to have to get his little brother's mouth open one way or another. "Come on, Sammy."

"It's-" Before Sam could even utter the second word of his usual 'It's Sam, not Sammy', retort, Dean was pouring down the day's old orange juice, placing his other hand on the back of Sam's head and pulling it back slightly so that he wouldn't choke. He didn't let up until the liquid had all but disappeared down his little brother's throat.

He took his sleeve and wiped away the little trickle that had made its way down the side of Sam's mouth and chin. The younger hunter still looked somewhat disheveled, but a bit more coherent than before. Dean waited a few moments before speaking again.

"You okay?" he asked, leaning down to Sam's eye level. He placed a hand on his little brother's right cheek, gently guiding his gaze to meet his. "Sammy?"

It took a minute before the brunette responded with a nod. "Yeah, jus'...think I need to eat."

"You safe to get up?" Dean asked, although he was already grabbing Sam by the arm, ready to shoulder whatever weight need be to get him into the diner.

"Yeah," Sam replied unsurely, accepting Dean's help without hesitation.

Dean avoided the stares of the onlookers and got his Sasquatch of a brother into the establishment without further trouble. He unloaded Sam on the first booth he saw, and immediately got the nearest waitress's attention.

"'Scuse me, ma'am," he said, placing one of his trademark charming grins on his face. "Is there anyway you could get my brother here a tall glass of juice and whatever today's special is? He's diabetic-"

"Say no more, sweetie," the red-headed, middle-aged woman interrupted with a smile. "Coming right up."

"Thanks," he said, lips still curled upward in appreciation. As soon as she walked away, his attention was right back on Sam, eyes wide and still full of worry. "Where's your blood tester?"

Sam pulled it out of his inside pocket and handed it over, hands still on the trembling side.

Normally, Dean knew Sam was all about privacy when it came to dealing with his diabetes (in the few short days he'd known about it anyway), but he'd decided that he needed to know the numbers he was dealing with now. He unzipped the case and followed the instructions Sam had given him. He took one of the strips out of its container and placed it in the machine, striped side first. Then, he took Sam's left hand and put the poker up to the tip of his index finger, pressed in slightly, and pushed the button that caused the lancet to pierce his skin. He removed it after a few seconds and placed the meter up to his finger; the strip collecting the needed amount of blood. He watched impatiently as the screen counted down from five to one, the number thirty-seven flashing when it was finished.

He knew thirty-seven was bad. Very bad. Like passing out and going into an actual diabetic coma and not waking up bad.

He wondered if the orange juice had fully kicked in yet, and if it had, what his blood sugar could have been before. He was doing more research on diabetes once they got to Montana, that was for sure.

Just as he was about to jump out of his seat to flag down the waitress he'd spoken to just minutes before, she came up to the table, a warm smile on her face as she sat down a plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon, and a cold glass of orange juice.

"Can I get anything for you, hon?" she asked, staring at Dean.

He'd been too busy shoving the food and drink in Sam's hands to realize she was speaking to him. He looked up, cheeks turning the slightest shade of pink when he saw she was still standing there. He held a hand up to his ear, pretending he hadn't heard her.

"Anything for you, sweetie?" she tried again.

"Just some coffee. Black, thank you," he replied, gaze quickly moving from her to his little brother. He relaxed somewhat when he saw Sam eating, slowly but surely. He waited until Sam had finished most of his food before saying anything. "I'm not liking this, Sammy."

Sam stopped chewing when he spoke, eyes drifting from the table to his. "Not liking what?" He still looked a bit peaky, but his color was starting to improve a bit.

"This whole almost passing out twice in less than a week thing. You've got to start eating more," Dean stated, nursing the cup of coffee the waitress had just brought him. He watched his little brother roll his eyes and set the fork down on the mostly empty plate, then wipe his mouth with a napkin before speaking again.

"I already told you I was going to, Dean, so there's no need to have this conversation all over again. I'll be fine. I'm fine now. I get low spells sometimes. It happens," he said sharply, his body tensing as he went into defensive mode.

"Yeah, you get low spells because you don't eat enough," Dean shot back, brow narrowing in anger.

"Will you stop with that crap? If you want to talk to someone about not eating enough, then you should be talking to yourself." The pointed look on his face screamed loud and clear to Dean how this conversation was going to end.

Badly.

"That's the thing, Sammy, I'm talking about _you_ here. Not me," Dean said, pointing to himself. "So stop trying to divert-"

"Divert? Since when did you learn such a big word?" he quipped, lips forming a thin line when he saw the look of hurt flash across Dean's eyes. He sighed and put his head in his hands. He took a deep breath and ran them through his hair. When he looked up, Dean was already on his way out the door, a wad of bills laying carefully folded on his side of the table next to the still steaming cup of coffee.

S*P*N*S*P*N

The sky was dark by the time they made it to Helena. Dean hadn't spoken a word since the diner. He'd driven in complete silence, and hadn't so much as even glanced at his little brother. Sam would've noticed because he'd pretty much been staring at him the whole time.

The brunette felt like an ass for what he'd said. He knew his brother wasn't stupid, not in the least, but that still never stopped him from spouting a line of bullshit here and there. He just hated it when Dean lectured him on something; especially something he'd been mostly in control of for awhile now. And he hated how much Dean sounded like their father. But he knew if he told his older brother that, he'd just take it as a compliment instead of the insult it was supposed to be.

Sam sighed as they pulled into another run-down looking motel's parking lot. There were a few cars there, but the place looked empty for the most part. He watched his older brother get out of the car and head for the main office; still not even a glance cast in his direction. He shook his head and got out of the car, grabbing both of their bags from the back seat. He slung his across his shoulder and tucked Dean's under his other arm. Within a few minutes, his older brother came out of the office and walked over to him, not saying a word as he removed his bag from under Sam's arm.

"Dean," Sam said, frustration clear in his tone, hand reaching for the green duffel instinctively though he reluctantly let it drop.

His older brother continued on towards their room. Sam followed him, hating the fact of how routine it was all becoming. Even though they were brothers, and brothers fought all the time...he didn't like it.

Even if he _did_ start it more than half the time.

He made it into the room shortly after his brother. The younger hunter glanced around the room and saw that not only had Dean already claimed his bed (the one furthest from the door this time), but he had also disappeared into the bathroom.

Sam deposited his bag onto the other bed and set his laptop down on the barely still-standing table. He grimaced as the scent of the room hit him; it was rank and had an iron-tint to it as well, like days old blood. He glanced at the carpet (just to make sure there weren't any mysterious stains), but other than being dirty, there was nothing else wrong with it.

He turned on the PC and looked around the room, wondering if there wasn't a coffee maker in it per chance. His searching stopped as soon as the bathroom door opened and Dean came out. He watched his older brother grab his jacket from his bed and head towards the door.

Almost immediately, Sam's face scrunched up in anger and frustration. "Where are you going?" he blurted out and reached for Dean's arm, his fingers grasping at the brown leather.

Dean avoided his touch, jerking his arm away before his little brother made contact. He continued his course to the door but paused before opening it. Keeping his gaze steady on the floor, he signed, "_Back later,"_ holding his right hand out in the shape of an 'L' before extending it forwards and curving it slightly.

"You can't just—dammit!" Sam exclaimed, growing even more irritated because he could keep on talking as long as he wanted but he knew Dean would refuse to look at him. The thought struck his mind that he could always force his older brother to look at him...

Without further hesitation, Dean opened the door and exited the room, closing it shut behind him.

Sam felt his hands clench at his sides, turning into fists. His legs were moving before he had a chance to stop them. He flung the door open and stepped out of the room. His anger helped him to ignore the frigid breeze that was blowing passed him and ruffling his hair; his mind was only focused on Dean. He scanned the parking lot, eyes narrowing when he saw his brother standing at the back of the Impala, the trunk hitched open. Without wavering, he stormed over to the middle Winchester, anger glowing intensely in his ocean-colored eyes.

He watched his brother do a double-take before slamming the trunk shut, brow narrowed in confusion. Before Dean had a chance to react, Sam shoved him up against the back of the car, fury plastered across his youthful yet weary visage.

He wasn't expecting to see Dean's eyes go wide, fear and shock filling the glimmering pools of green.

Sam could feel his brother's body go tense—too tense—for just surprising him like that. Dean was rigid, and his face so pale it made his freckles stand out even in the shady light of the motel parking lot.

Sam had never seen his older brother look so afraid in his life.

He eased his grip a little, most of his anger dissipating at the sight of his brother's mouth flying open as the words, "_I'm sorry,"_ came from his lips but didn't make a sound. _"I'm sorry, Sammy."_

All of a sudden, Sam lost focus, his vision blurring as pain shot through his head. Within seconds, he was back in the motel room, Dean walking passed him, just as he had minutes before.

This time he was able to grab a hold of his brother before everything went black.

S*P*N*S*P*N

**A/N : Happy New Year everyone! :) A humongous THANK YOU to all of you who reviewed chapter one : MaevaSpn, MissGeorgie, shammy101, dandy44, babyreaper, kissacazador, 2People, Lbdba, anaspa, anon (yep, he's type 1 :D), SPSmallCharm29, Glades of Grey, and Black Eyed Kids. **

**I really do appreciate the support and feedback, so thank you so much again for it! :) **

**All medical knowledge concerning Sam's diabetes is due to personal experience. A very close member of my family has had it for the past 12 years, and I've been with them every step of the way. **

**Once again, thank you all so much, and I hope you all liked the chapter :)**


	3. Breathe Me

**The Illusionist Part II**

**Chapter 3 : Breathe Me**

**Warnings : Bucket-fulls of angst, allusions of an eating disorder (because being deaf just isn't enough)**

Dean was in full out panic mode.

One minute, he was on his way towards the door ready to train for the next three hours (secretly, because if Sam knew, he'd kill him), the next, his little brother was collapsing before his very eyes, almost bringing him down too.

He'd managed to get Sam over to his bed, struggling a bit because his little brother wasn't exactly as light as he looked.

The first thing Dean did was test his brother's blood (three times, no less), but apparently that wasn't the cause of Sam's current fainting incident. The numbers were all within the normal range, so Dean reasoned that low blood sugar wasn't the culprit.

_He was clutching his head...but I've never seen a head ache bring him down like this before._

Before his heart could race any faster and his mind could go into panic overload, he saw Sam's eyes crack open, unsure at first, then finally becoming aware of their surroundings.

"Sammy? You okay?" he asked, one hand resting on his brother's slow rising chest.

Immediately, Sam put a hand to his head, massaging his scalp though it was a fruitless effort; the pain was still there. Not as bad as before, but still present. "Yeah, I, uh, think so," he answered, trying not to mumble, but every time he spoke, it made his brain hurt. He forced himself to sit up, though getting past the dizziness soon became challenging. He gripped the sheets with his other hand, but it didn't help; the room was still spinning.

"Why don't you lay back down? Get some rest," Dean suggested, hand still hovering in front of his little brother's chest, ready to push him (gently, of course) back down to the mattress.

"No, I'm fine-"

"You don't look fine, Sam. Here," he said, handing him a glass of water and a few pills. "Sorry it's from the tap and not one of those fancy little bottles you're used to drinking out of."

Sam smiled a little at that and ever-so-hesitantly took the aspirin and water from Dean's hands. He tilted his head back slightly and popped the medicine in, downing the liquid afterward. He grimaced at the taste of the water, it falling somewhere between nasty and out-right awful. He reluctantly accepted Dean's advice, and laid back.

"Need anything else? Teddy bear? Chocolate on your pillow?" Dean cracked, his lips quirked to one side.

Sam rolled his eyes, but still let a smile creep across his lips. "No. No, I'm fine, thanks."

Dean nodded and reached to turn off the lamp nearest Sam's bed when his younger brother grabbed his wrist, gently, no less. It still made Dean freeze; Sam could feel the muscles in his wrist tighten, even through the two or three layers he was wearing. The older hunter immediately looked down at his little brother, green eyes only showcasing the slightest hint of fear.

"I'm sorry."

Dean stared at the brunette for a moment, expression changing from masked to confused. "For what?"

"For earlier. I-"

Dean cut him off, easing his arm away and holding his hand out in front of him. "Dude, no chick-flick stuff. It's cool. Don't worry about it."

Sam clenched his jaw. He wasn't in the mood to argue, not with the splitting pain that was stomping around inside his head, but being shrugged off again was really starting to piss him off. "Right. Goodnight."

"Night," Dean replied and turned the light off. He glanced at Sam before he went over to his bed and removed a pair of sweatpants, t-shirt, and boxers from his duffel. He grabbed his toiletries as well and went into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him.

The bathroom was small, and the dark green-tiled floor looked like it hadn't been swept in ages, but he'd make due. Hell, he'd done sit-ups and push-ups on much worse so it wasn't that much of a problem. He waited a few more seconds before he turned on the water in the shower, hoping it was as noisy as it looked. He turned the knob to its coldest position, not actually intending to get in just yet. He hoped the sound of the running water would put Sam to sleep, and drown out any sounds he would make while he was working out.

Dean slipped out of his jeans and pulled on the black pair of cottony sweatpants. They sagged on his waist, so he pulled the drawstring tighter, ignoring the fact that they used to fit perfectly before. He kept his two long-sleeved shirts on and got to work.

First, he started with a hundred push-ups, forcing himself to start all over again if he faltered even the slightest bit.

_You've gotta be strong for Sammy. He needs you._

By the time he got to his sit-up regimen, Dean was drenched in sweat, but he kept both his shirts on; he didn't want to see what was underneath. He knew what was there; John had reminded him many a time.

_Gettin' soft in the middle, boy. Better work it off. How many hunters do you know with a gut?_

He went through the motions—up, down, up, down—over and over again until he reached five hundred. He let himself fall back down to rest, just for a minute, his abdominal muscles (and the still-healing wound on his side) screaming for him to stop. Hell, his entire body was telling him to just call it quits and take a shower, but he wouldn't listen. Instead, he got to his feet and started running in place, staring at the wall instead of the grimy mirror that was in front of him.

Every so often, he'd glance at the door, just to make sure Sam wasn't trying to get in. After what he'd given him, the chances were slim, but still Dean was cautious.

He kept up with the running for an hour before finally deciding that taking a shower was probably a good idea. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he was undressing, disdain marking his thin face.

He hadn't lost that much weight. Not really.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself. Because those weren't ribs poking through his skin. No, they were just shadows from the bad lighting. That's all.

S*P*N*S*P*N

When Sam woke up, thankfully, the headache was gone, but the memory of the vision wasn't.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair as he glanced at Dean's bed. It was empty.

_Figures._

He had almost managed to fling the covers off of himself when the door opened. He watched his brother balance a drink carrier filled with two cups of steaming hot coffee in one hand, and a plastic bag filled with presumably their breakfast and a few newspapers in the other, all the while closing the door with his foot.

"Mornin', sunshine," Dean quipped when he saw that his little brother was finally awake. "Hope you're hungry," he added, setting everything down on the dingy table.

Sam rolled his eyes and got up, grabbing his blood testing kit and insulin from the nightstand. He sat down at the table, preparing to go through his testing ritual when he saw the headline on the front newspaper : FIFTH STUDENT PERISHES IN YET ANOTHER SUICIDE.

"Happened yesterday," Dean stated, sitting across from his brother and removing his breakfast from the bag. "I saw some of the kid's friends at the diner, and from what I could understand, he was Mr. Popular. Star quarterback, good grades, tons of friends. The usual person you'd think would never off themselves."

"So what's the game plan?" Sam asked as he pricked his finger with the poker. When he didn't receive a response, he looked up, realizing Dean hadn't seen he was talking. To get Dean's attention, he swiped a piece of diced potato out of his brother's container, almost laughing when he saw the frown form on Dean's lips. Before his brother could open his mouth to say '_hey_', Sam put both of his hands out in front his chest, sweeping them from left to right.

Dean's expression softened when he realized it was just a ploy to grab his attention rather than an attempt to steal his food. "The plan? I figured we could go check out the place. It should be mostly empty now cos they're holding a memorial for the dead kids. And if by chance we see somebody, we'll just pretend to be students or something. Shouldn't be too hard."

Sam nodded as he took his insulin, pinching what little he could on his arm and injecting himself. He glanced up when he was done just in time to see Dean look away.

He'd been watching him.

A small smile pulled up the corner of Sam's lips. _Always has to make sure I'm okay. Gotta love 'em._

The youngest Winchester opened his breakfast container, surprised to see that his brother had actually gotten him something that he liked; a vegetarian omelet with a side of diced apples and a banana nut muffin. He found himself hungry for the first time in awhile and started to eat.

They both ate in silence until Dean's unsure voice cut through it.

"How's your head?" He spoke so softly Sam almost didn't hear him. The brunette looked up from his meal, making sure he had heard right. Dean was staring at him, an expectant look on his face.

"Better," Sam answered with a nod. "The aspirin did the trick."

"Yeah, and actually sleeping for more than three hours probably helped too," Dean said with a lopsided grin, a glint of mischief in his eyes. He pushed his chair out and got up, throwing away his container, thankful that Sam hadn't noticed it was still half full.

Sam thought about his brother's statement for a moment, an eyebrow quirking in confusion. "Wait a second...Did you give me sleeping pills?" he asked curiously. He pursed his lips when he saw that his brother was purposely not looking at him. Sam tossed his plastic fork at him when he didn't receive a response.

Dean looked innocently up at him, trying to keep a straight face. "What? Couldn't hear ya, being deaf and all," he remarked, raising a finger to his right ear and then moving it towards his mouth. "Hey, don't get your panties all in a bunch over it. Besides I only gave you one, the other _was_ an aspirin. You needed sleep, Sammy."

Sam sighed. Dean was right. _Dammit._

"Whatever," Sam mumbled, closing his now empty container. "Ready to go?" he asked, holding both hands in front of him with his index fingers pointed outwards and moving them forward.

"Yep," Dean replied, sliding his jacket on. "Last one to the car has to do laundry for the next week," he added quickly, then jogged to the door, not even giving Sam a chance.

"Jerk," he murmured under his breath, grabbing his jacket as well. He was half-smiling though as he exited the room.

S*P*N*S*P*N

They arrived at Carroll College quickly; the motel having only been less than a mile away. The campus consisted of several large halls, and with a little searching, they soon found the one they were looking for.

"So they're all jumping from the same spot?" Sam asked as they both came to stand in front of Saint Charles Hall, the structure where all of the deaths were occurring.

Dean nodded in response, eyes squinting from the morning sun.

They both looked up at the four-story building. It was huge and constructed out of red porphyry stone with a red-tiled roof. It had a gothic air about it, definitely creepy and old looking and ripe for haunting.

"The paper said they're all taking the plunge from the same place on the fourth floor," Dean stated. "Didn't say where at up there though."

They made their way into the building, both falling into their roles as transfer students. Dean led the way up the large staircase and up to the fourth floor. The main hallway was long and had numerous doors; the ones on the left side led to the mens dormitories, and the ones on the right to the womens. It was mostly empty with the exception of a lone priest coming from the mens side.

"Excuse me, Father," Sam said as the man approached the stairway. The priest looked to be between thirty and forty, a few gray hairs blending in with his short brown hair. He was thin and wore a solemn expression upon his face. Not exactly the most friendly-looking of people.

"Yes? How can I help you boys?" he asked, a polite, barely-there smile curving up the corners of his lips.

"Um, we're new here-"

"Just transferred from Iowa State," Dean cut in with a grin. This place was making him nervous, and for the life of him, he couldn't understand why.

"Right, Iowa State," Sam repeated with an annoyed glance at his brother. "And anyway, like I was saying, we're new here, and we're trying get on with the school newspaper. We heard about the recent suicides..."

The priest's face immediately faltered and turned grim and mention of the latest happenings. "I hope you two aren't put off by those incidents," he said. "This is a fine, fine institution, and there are some that just cannot handle the pressures of society. As you know, this is a catholic school, and those students had every opportunity available to rid themselves of their self-doubt and destructive behaviors-"

"Destructive behaviors?" Dean scoffed. "It didn't look like any of those kids engaged in destructive behaviors. In fact, most of them seemed about as happy and apple pie as you can get."

The priest stared at him, an irritable smiling now forming on his mouth. "I can assure that just because someone _seems_ alright, doesn't mean that they are. We all wear masks every now and then."

Dean's eyes narrowed more, his jaw clenching visibly underneath his skin.

Sam quickly took control of the conversation, already seeing where the war of words was leading. "So, we heard that they're all," he paused, looking for a more sincere way to ask where the kids were offing themselves. "Committing these acts from the same spot. Is that true?"

The priest gladly directed his gaze at the younger brunette. "Yes, that is true. No matter how many times we seal the room up, they're still somehow managing to get in there."

"May I ask where exactly that place is?" Sam inquired, trying to sound as polite as possible. "Just so we can add it to the article we're working on. If it's not too much trouble."

The older man sighed and pointed back down the hall we're he'd just come from. "It's down the hall and to the right, but you can't get in there. It was once used as a bathroom, but the area has been cordoned off, and if any student does manage to get in there," he stated, glancing at Dean, "it is means for immediate expulsion."

Sam nodded in understanding. "Thank you so much for your time, Father."

They hadn't walked more than five steps away from the man when Dean uttered, "What a dick."

Sam's eyes widened and he nudged his brother, nervously turning around and throwing a wave over his shoulder at the priest.

"What?" Dean asked, running a hand over his ribs.

Sam rolled his eyes and tapped his right ear twice, jerking his head back in the direction of the holy man.

"So what if he can hear me?" Dean asked with a shrug of the shoulders. "Besides, he's gone anyway," he continued, looking back at the spot where the man had been.

"Dean." Sam stared at his brother, and something in that look made Dean's 'so what' expression disappear fairly quickly. Sam really didn't know how much he looked like their father sometimes.

It didn't take long to find what they were looking for; the area was roped off just as the priest had said, and decorated with numerous teddy bears, flowers, football memorabilia and other memorial trinkets. The door to the bathroom itself had been boarded up, four two-by-fours nailed across it. And if those weren't enough, someone had drilled four steel plates into it, one in each corner.

"_Looks like we're gonna need the crowbar,"_ Dean signed, holding his left hand flat facing out in front of him, and using his right to act as though he were prying open a door. He unzipped the bag of tools they'd brought and began to dig for the metal bar.

Sam stared at him for a moment, comprehending him fully, but not understanding why his brother would just stop talking like that and decide to sign instead. It was becoming more and more frequent, and Sam just couldn't figure it out. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed as though Dean stopped speaking when he was upset, but there was no reason to be upset now, was there? Sam shook the thought away and bent down to examine some of the items left from the jumpers' friends.

There were plenty of the usual 'R.I.P.' letters and pictures, but one in particular caught his eye.

_Sis-_

_I will never understand why you've done this, and I don't think I ever will. We were like best friends, and told each other everything, at least, I told you everything. How could you have done this? Why didn't you tell me anything was wrong? Was this because of Mom? I thought we'd gotten past it. Was I wrong? You know you can't blame God for that. I know you were angry, but this? I feel like I should have caught on, but I didn't, and I can't tell you how sorry I am. I love you and miss you so much, and I hope one day I'll see you again. _

_I love you,_

_Kate_

Sam stood up, holding the piece of paper out to Dean.

"_What's this?" _Dean asked with his hands, holding them out in front of himself and shrugging, then pointing at the letter.

"Just read it," Sam answered, holding his index and middle fingers out and pointing to the paper.

Dean took it and did so, his brow narrowed as he read through it. _"So?"_ he shrugged. "_She's angry at her sister for offing herself. What's the big deal?"_ he asked, fingers and hands moving so fast Sam could hardly keep up.

"Not sure, but I'm leaning towards doubt," Sam answered, taking the letter back from his brother and setting it back amongst the piles of memorial items.

"_Doubt?" _Dean asked, holding his right index and middle finger a few inches in front of his eyes and then moving them away while he shook his head. _"Like realizing there isn't a God?"_

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes, deciding not to play into Dean's smartassery. "Like doubting their faith."

"_So, like I said, realizing how naïve they've been?"_ the middle Winchester quipped with a surefire smirk. He quickly changed the subject when he saw the flash of anger cloud over Sam's face like an impending thunderstorm. _"Keep watch for me, will ya?"_ he asked, retrieving the crowbar from the gym bag. Without waiting for a response, he turned towards the door and began to pry off the metal pieces.

Sam clenched his jaw and forced himself to keep his mouth shut. He walked down towards the end of the hall; it was easier to tell if someone one coming from there. His mind began to drift as he heard the sounds of the metal plates falling to the floor, clinking as they made contact with the marble below and echoing down the hallway.

He thought about all the sounds he could hear, and all the noises that grated on his nerves, and how they'd probably sound like music to Dean's ears if were actually able to hear them. Car horns, the buzzing of a fly, the couple in the next motel room's moaning (yeah, his brother would probably love that a little too much); they were all sounds Sam took for granted.

"You're lucky. If I were a snake, I would've bit you," Dean's voice cut through his thoughts, actually making him jump. "C'mon, door's open," he said, nodding towards the opposite end of the hallway.

Sam stared at him for a moment, still surprised at how quiet his older brother had been. Dean never ceased to amaze him. Or annoy him, for that matter. He quickly followed the middle Winchester back to the cordoned off area, stepping over the ropes as Dean ducked under them.

"Show off," Dean muttered, making sure he was first to the door. He cracked it open, the stale, damp air hitting them both at the same time.

The two brothers stepped into the old bathroom; it was clear it hadn't been used in years, judging from the thick layers of dust that coated most of the black and white checkered floor and the single, long porcelain sink that sat off to their left side. The walls were painted a pea-green color and were faded from lack of upkeep. There were two large windows on the far side of the bathroom; one was whole, the other was boarded up. Sunlight slipped through the dirty glass of the remaining window, showcasing all the particles of dust that were floating in the too cold room.

Sam watched Dean pull his homemade EMF reader out of the inside pocket of his jacket. As soon as he turned it on, the machine lit up and Sam could hear its bleeps and static indicating that there was most definitely something supernatural going on.

The door to the bathroom suddenly slammed closed, sending cobwebs and dust flying.

Sam glanced at his brother, worry in his eyes as a sense of dread hit him, smacking him straight in the chest and trickling out to the ends of his limbs. As the wall of frigid air hit them, he watched Dean take a few steps in front of him, subconsciously or not, Dean was ever the protector.

Something that looked a hell of a lot like blood began to gush from the two ancient-looking faucets in the single sink basin, rapidly filling it up and splashing onto the floor, staining the tiles and creating a lake of crimson at their feet. Within seconds, an apparition began to appear in the middle of the blood. It was hard to make out at first, but the spirit eventually took the form of a priest; the one that they had encountered just moments before.

Sam's mouth opened in surprise and he felt himself shiver, the air in the room continuing to grow colder. Even though they were trained hunters, the two young men were definitely not expecting this. The worst part was, they had no way to rid themselves of the disturbance. They hadn't brought any weapons because for one thing, neither thought they'd need to use them while they were; and two, shooting a gun off in the middle of the day in a college full of students was sure to raise a red flag and have the police called in. Hell, they'd only went to check out the place.

Now they were just fucked in usual Winchester fashion.

The priest stood there for a moment, just staring at them, his cold scowl narrowing in on Dean. Sam watched as his brother continued to stand defiant, though there was a definite hint of worry in his eyes.

"You're just like the rest of them," the spirit finally spoke in a whisper, coming closer and closer to Dean, the gap between them less than three feet now. "Putting on a front, pretending all is well and good, but it's not." It laughed. "No, it's not. Far from it, in fact. You hate yourself, don't you child? Wish you could end it all and not have to worry about keeping up appearances anymore, hmmm?"

Sam could see from his vantage point the expression on his brother's face change from angry to hurt.

"You're completely worthless, and you know it. He knows it too," the priest cooed, nodding towards Sam.

Sam's eyes widened as Dean looked back at him, the most heartbreaking expression set upon his features. "_Sammy_?" he mouthed, green eyes glimmering.

"Don't listen to him, Dean!" Sam shouted, hating the irony of his statement. "It's not true!" he exclaimed, shaking his head as he quickly formed his right hand into an A shape and placed his thumb under his chin, moving it forward sharply. He then extended his right index finger and placed it on his lips and moved it forward just as surely.

Before his brother had a chance to react, the ghost grabbed Dean by the throat, wrapping its icy cold fingers around his neck and squeezing, cutting off the precious oxygen supply to the hunter's lungs.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, reaching for the forgotten crowbar that lay lonely and desolate on the bloody floor. He quickly retrieved it, the metal cold and heavy in his hands. He was about to swing at the spirit when it disappeared, but not before hurling Dean across the room and directly through the boarded up window.

Sam felt his jaw and heart both drop simultaneously when he saw that the glassless window was now wide open and gaping, letting in the chilly winter air from outside.

The wind struck him cold and fast, blowing his shaggy mane this way and that, but he paid no attention. He was rooted to the spot, eyes wide with shock at what he'd just witnessed. He felt the tears threatening to drop, clouding his vision to the point of near-blindness when he saw a familiar hand reach up and over the window sill, grasping for purchase.

"Dean!" he shouted, breaking free of his invisible restraints and sprinting over to the window. He immediately clasped a hold of his brother's hand and pulled him up, telling himself that it was only easy because of all the adrenaline currently pumping through his veins.

They both sat on the floor for a moment, catching their breath.

Dean was the first to speak. "You okay, Sammy?" he asked, completely ignoring the fact that he'd just been hailed through a window and nearly fallen to his death.

Sam shook his head, telling himself that he had, in fact, heard his brother correctly. "Yeah, man, I'm fine. What about you?"

Dean stared at him for a moment, processing the words that were filtering through his brother's lips. "I'll live."

Sam stood up and held a hand out, only to have Dean brush it off and get up on his own.

"We need to find out who the hell that dick of a priest is and where he's buried because I can't wait to salt and burn that bastard," Dean managed to get out before his legs gave way and dizziness turned his vision into a tilt-o-whirl.

As Sam watched his brother collapse and black out, some nagging voice in the back of his head told him that it probably wouldn't be the last time it happened.

**A/N : Sorry for the long delay. I just want to send a big THANK YOU to those who've reviewed and stuck with me for the sequel. MANY THANKS to shammy101, dandy44, Glades of Grey, HPSmallCharm29, CrazyDreamin, kissacazador, J Reznik , renniespice, and ANON. Thank you all for your positive reviews, and I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, took me long enough to write it! Lol Until next time...**


	4. The Line Begins to Blur

**The Illusionist Part II**

**Chapter 4 : The Line Begins to Blur**

As soon as he became conscious, he felt the headache. It pounded on the inside of his skull like a dead man trying to escape his coffin. Green eyes soon opened, meeting the gaze of a brown splotch-covered ceiling. He blinked a few times, trying to recall exactly where he was when he remembered the ghost tossing him out a window like he was a ragdoll instead of the human being that he was. He knew Sam had helped him back in, and after that, that was about it.

_Shit._

If he was lying in the motel room and he didn't know how he'd gotten there, that could mean only one thing.

He clenched his jaw, and lifted his head up, feeling the cool sheets shift underneath of him as his gaze met his brother's. Sam was sitting at the grubby, round table, blue light from his laptop cast upon his furrowed features.

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it. Sam looked like their father at that moment, and Dean knew that if he tried to speak, nothing would probably come out.

He needed a drink; or rather, something to drink.

He clenched the sheets as he pulled himself into a sitting position, grimacing slightly at the way his skin burned and pulled apart as he did so. He glanced down at his hands and saw the cuts. There were numerous ones littering his pale flesh, crisscrossing over his knuckles and palms. He swallowed thickly and forced his legs over the side of the bed, still feeling Sam's gaze upon his shoulders.

He figured the brunette was probably trying to get his attention, but Dean was doing his best to ignore him as long as he could. The split second that he had looked into his brother's eyes spoke volumes. He could tell Sam was angry, but he wasn't sure why; although, more and more lately, it was becoming the norm. Though, truthfully, more and more lately, he was the cause of it. That much he knew.

Dean ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, wincing as his fingers ran over a rather large cut on the back of his head. It didn't feel like there was any stitches there, the skin was just raised up and scabbed over, so at least that was something.

He rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of his index fingers, and forced himself to stand. The room wobbled and tilted a bit, but he soon regained his balance and made his way over to the mini fridge, grabbing one of Sam's fancy-schmancy waters and downing it in two gulps.

He turned around to sit down at the table, but low and behold, Sam was standing there right behind him, looking like one of those gargoyles angrily perched on top of an old building. His arms were folded, and his lips were pursed, and Dean couldn't help but roll his eyes, knowing that the full force of his little brother was about to be unleashed upon the motel room.

"So, find anything out about our priest yet?" he asked, placing a smirk on his face, just because he knew it would piss his brother off.

"Really? Seriously? That's how we're going to start off this conversation?" Sam snapped, an eyebrow quirking up in reflex. At least, that's what Dean thought he had said. He was pretty sure, anyway.

"Um, yeah. We are on a case, aren't we?" the middle Winchester responded, looking up at his younger brother. He could still remember the days when even the thought of Sam being taller than him was laughable. Not so much anymore...

"Dean, what in the hell is going on with you?" the younger hunter shouted, bluish-green eyes widening in anger.

It was easy to read his little brother's lips that time; it was a phrase he'd been repeating far too much lately. _Ha_, what was wrong with him? _Every-fucking thing,_ Dean thought, but he didn't dare say it. "Blood sugar low, Sammy? You're looking a little peaky." He let a smile curve up the corners of his lips when he saw Sam's brow furrow even more, if that were possible.

"Don't turn this around on me, Dean! I want you to answer me, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"How about you be a little more specific, Sammy? Wait, am I allowed to use such a big word?" he asked, feigning ignorance. He couldn't help but smile a little harder when he saw Sam's mouth scrunch up and tiny lines form around his lips.

"You've lost weight, Dean, enough to where I didn't struggle _at_ all to haul your ass down four flights of stairs and all the way out to the car. You look like death warmed over with those damn rings underneath your eyes, and the fact that you won't tell me anything that happened while-"

"While you were at Stanford?" Dean interjected, his expression darkening slightly. "That's because there's nothing to say!" He was pretty sure he was yelling back. He could feel the cords in his throat pulling his skin tight, even though that wasn't a hard thing to do nowadays, but still, the pinched look on his little brother's face made him positive. "Will you just give it up? We've got a case to solve, and if we don't hurry our asses up, someone else might die! You want that?" He knew those words would make Sam cave for the moment, at least. Now after they were done, that was a whole other story.

He really didn't like the way his little brother was glaring at him, but after a few seconds passed, Sam turned the open PC to face them though he didn't speak. He just kept on staring.

Dean rolled his eyes and leaned over, reading the headline on the _Montana Herald-Record_ page : DECEMBER 12, 1906 LOCAL PRIEST DEAD IN APPARENT SUICIDE. _Authorities were summoned to Carroll College at approximately 7:30 PM last night after witnesses say Father O'Malley, one of the senior priests began acting strangely before leaping to his death out of a fourth story bathroom window in St. Charles Hall._

"So where's he buried, 'cause I'm so ready to salt and burn that bastard's bones," Dean stated, glancing up at Sam. He felt his jaw clench in reflex when he saw the hurt look that was now invading Sam's eyes. He didn't like lying to him, but he didn't necessarily like telling him the truth either. He tried to stay in the gray area in between, but even that was becoming trying.

He watched Sam's lips move, but much to his dismay, couldn't understand what his little brother had said. He hated when Sam decided to murmur.

"Come again," Dean stated, holding a hand up to his ear, an annoyed expression creeping upon his features.

"He's buried in Robinson Park," Sam repeated, normally this time.

"A park?" the middle Winchester asked, disbelief in his eyes.

"The park used to be a cemetery back in the mid-1800's to 1908. It closed down when they opened a new one about a mile away. They left over 1,600 bodies there, and I'm pretty sure his was one of them. I couldn't find his name listed when I checked the database for the newer cemetery."

"So that means we're just screwed?" Dean asked, mouth slightly agape at the thought of not being able to rid the world of the bastard that sent him through a wall of glass.

"Not entirely," the brunette answered. "Apparently, back in those days, when a member of the cloth or congregation committed suicide, even though they were still allowed burial in a Catholic cemetery, their graves were segregated from the others, usually in the back of the cemetery. I managed to find an old map of this particular one, and the sequestered graves were located in the northeast corner."

Dean stared at his little brother for a moment, thankful at how resourceful the Sasquatch was, but it only made the guilt in his chest increase tenfold. "How many were there?"

"Ten," Sam replied, eyes still just shy of watering.

"Guess we better get to digging, huh?" Dean asked, a forced smile turning up the corners of his lips.

"We're going to talk, Dean." Before Dean had a chance to cut him off, Sam put a hand up, not about to let it happen. "After we're done, you're going to talk to me. It's only fair, and you know it."

"Sam..." He was really hoping he was projecting that warning tone that he knew their father was oh-so-capable of, but Sam apparently wasn't _having_ it.

"I mean it. Once this is over, we're going to have an actual conversation, Dean. There's something going on, and I'm sick and tired of you lying to me about it. I told you what was wrong with me, even though I didn't want to. You _made_ me, and now I'm going to make you."

"Good one, Sammy, but you can't make me do anything," Dean scoffed, the grin hardening on his face. He turned to grab his jacket from one of the chairs when he felt Sam's hand clamp around his bicep. He immediately attempted to jerk it out of his grasp, but to no avail. He looked up at his brother's lips, not liking the words he appeared to be speaking.

"I'm serious, Dean. You're going to tell me what's going on. One way or another."

_Shit._

S*P*N*S*P*N

Flurries were just starting to trickle from the dark sky overhead when they arrived at the park. Dean pulled the Impala up as close to the entryway as he could without looking too suspicious. He turned the car off; a blast of cold air hitting him as soon as he opened the door. The frigid gust swept through his layers and still managed to chill his already cool skin. He shivered involuntarily as he popped open the trunk, reaching in and grabbing their shovels as Sam retrieved the salt and burning supplies.

If there was one thing Dean hated, it was digging in cold ground. If there were two things Dean hated; one would be digging in cold ground, the other would be not knowing which grave was the one they needed to unearth.

He glanced over at his brother, watching him pull the map from his jacket pocket. "Lead the way," he stated, gesturing towards the disarrayed grounds.

Row after row of crumbling headstones laid at their feet, littering the dirt floor. Dean felt the hair on the back of his neck standing at attention; there was most definitely an air of creepiness surrounding them, and he wondered how a church—a Catholic one at that—could let a resting place fall to such ruin. The town was small, but it wasn't _that_ small.

His green eyes wandered as they made their way to the back of the former cemetery, gazing at the statue of an angel that was split in two, its lifeless eyes boring right through him. He immediately looked away, deciding to focus on something else other than that. Still, it felt as though the thing were truly watching him. Curiosity got the better of him and he couldn't help but glance back at the stone piece, rolling his eyes when he realized how stupid he was being. It wasn't watching him...it _wasn't_.

He gripped the shovels tighter, thankful that he'd remembered to bring along two sets of gloves. The last time he'd forgotten to bring extra gloves...well, that was a time he didn't care to think about. Needless to say, he'd been the one digging barehanded for two hours and wound up with blisters the size of Texas.

_At least he didn't make you drive around afterward..._

He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't realized Sam had stopped, thus causing him to slam right into his little brother. He closed his eyes for a moment, thankful that it was so dark Sam wouldn't be able to see the redness creeping across his cheeks.

"You okay?" he caught his little brother saying when he'd opened his eyes, clenching his jaw and giving a curt nod in response. When had he become so clumsy?

"Let's get this party started. We gonna leap frog it?" he asked, trying to ignore the look of concern etched in Sam's eyes.

"Sure," Sam answered, letting his gaze linger a little too long for Dean's liking.

"Well, quit staring at me and let's get to it," the middle Winchester said, tossing a shovel and a pair of gloves at his little brother and going over where the first grave was supposed to be. He didn't wait around to see the way Sam's eyes were probably glimmering in the faint glow of the flashlight. Instead, he stuck the shovel into the frozen earth and went to work.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he'd hit something other than cold, hard dirt, but it felt like hours. His back and arms were already sore, and the muscles in his legs ached as well. He switched on his flashlight and peered into the darkness of the coffin, disappointment settling in his chest when he saw that the remains were not clothed in all black with a clerical collar. He sighed and stood up, dusting off the knees of his holey jeans. He glanced over at Sam, but from the look on his brother's face, he could tell he hadn't hit pay dirt either.

Dean moved onto the next one, glancing at the watch that was hanging off his slender wrist. He knew they'd gotten there just after eleven, and it was now a quarter past one. If they didn't find the bastard soon, they'd probably be shit out of luck. For tonight anyways, but he didn't want to stay in this place longer than he honestly had to. After all, they were still trying to find their father, and that in itself was like trying to find a needle in a pile of needles.

After another couple hours of digging, he was so lost in thought that he almost didn't see the whizzing object that had flown right passed his face and landed on the ground next to him. He automatically grabbed his sawed-off before even daring to see what it was (more alert than he should be at four in the morning), only to see Sam snickering at him out of the corner of his vision. He rolled his eyes and sat the gun back down, shrugging his shoulders and mouthing, _"What?"_

Sam, in turn, rolled his eyes as well and pulled out the lighter fluid, tossing it over to Dean.

_Oh._

Leaving his gun atop the nearest pile of dirt, he quickly made his way out of the hole he was digging and over to Sam's. He peered down in it, switching his flashlight on. "Are you sure it's him?" he asked.

The top of the coffin was broken showcasing the remains; they were clothed in all black and there was a white clerical collar adorning the skeleton's throat.

Sam was about to respond when the priest's spirit appeared between them, its furious eyes boring into Dean's. "Worthless scum!" it shouted, clasping a hand around Dean's throat more.

"Sam!" he managed to choke out as he threw the lighter fluid back to his little brother. He could feel his airway starting to close, but he didn't even have a chance to do anything about it. The ghost squeezed tighter, and Dean could feel its icy grip wringing the life right out of him. Black spots dotted his vision, and at that moment, he was hoping that Sam had popped the lid off the lighter fluid and just drowned the bitch in it.

It wasn't too long before he could see flames out of the corner of his eye, but there was one problem.

The priest hadn't disappeared.

No, instead, its glow burned brighter, and the deceased man's face lit up; a maniacal grin curving his lips upward.

Dean could feel his chest tightening, eyes widening at the fact that the body was burning but the spirit had still not vanished as it was supposed to.

And that's when he realized that Sam had been wrong.

He tried desperately to call out, to warn his little brother, but before he could force the words past his lips, the ghost threw him through the air.

The sensation of flying lasted only a few seconds and was quickly replaced by the feeling of landing on the frozen earth. As soon as he did, he felt something in his shoulder give, causing pain to immediately flare up and down his left side. He grimaced and bit his bottom lip, doing his best to push away the pain. After a few seconds, he managed to raise his head up just in time to see the ghost heading straight for Sam.

"Sonovabitch," he muttered, stumbling as he pushed himself up into a sitting position, and then finally to his feet. He automatically reached for the sawed-off and fired, the spirit disappearing in the midst of the rock salt. "You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked without a second thought, his own injury already long forgotten.

Sam looked up at him from his crouched position, nodded, and stood.

"Please tell me there's more fluid left," Dean said, glancing at the kicked over bottle that was lying on the ground. He watched the neutral expression leave his brother's face and transform into a defensive one.

"Of course there is," the brunette responded, grabbing another bottle from their duffel bag. Dean saw the way Sam's lips pursed in anger as he tossed the other container to him.

"No need to get snippy, Sammy," he teased, catching the fluid and hurriedly heading back over to the grave he'd been working on. The coffin hadn't been broken in yet, so he grabbed his shovel with his right arm, clenching his jaw as the placed away pain suddenly came shooting back. He swallowed thickly and plunged the tip of the shovel into the century old wood, it splintering into tiny pieces. He had the cap off the bottle and was just about to douse the grave when the priest appeared again, a malevolent grin stretching its lips wide.

"You'll always be empty...Always feeling worthless, because you are," it laughed, looking Dean straight in the eye. "So instead of dragging out your pathetic existence, just end it. Trust me, you'll feel better."

All at once, it felt like he was paralyzed, unable to move, unable to drench the grave and burn the damn thing. Dean was frozen in place, eyes wide at his new found immobility. His brow furrowed as he tried desperately to look away from the spirit, but couldn't. It was almost as though it was holding him in place, forcing him to adhere to its taunts and insults.

He could feel his muscles tensing and straining as he tried to move, but he stayed put, fingers gripping the plastic container of fluid so tightly he was almost sure his thumb was going to poke a hole through it.

"One bullet is all it'll take. Then, it'll all be over," the priest continued to grin, wild eyes looking more and more demented as the seconds ticked on.

Dean couldn't hear the gun go off, but he sure as hell could see the rock salt fly by and vanquish the ghost yet again. In that moment, the hold on his body eased and he hurriedly poured the fluid all over the coffin. He extracted a lighter from his jacket pocket and flung it open, his shaking hand barely able to get it to light before he tossed it in the grave, setting the resting place ablaze.

The priest appeared before them once more, only this time, his soul was on fire and he was screaming. Within a few seconds, he was gone, unable to hurt anyone anymore.

Dean wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced at his little brother. "Let's get the hell out of here."

S*P*N*S*P*N

Neither Winchester spoke a word during the ride back to the motel. The tension in the Impala was so thick, Dean was positive that even their sharpest bowie knife wouldn't be able to cut through it.

He let out a breathless sigh as the motel came into view; most of the lights out in the two story structure. He parked the car in front of their room, but didn't immediately get out. The pure whiteness of his knuckles in the darkness of the car held his attention, the fact that they were damn near spotless compared to the rest of him.

A tug on the sleeve of his jacket broke him from his reverie.

His gaze darted from his hands to Sam, a concerned look gracing his brother's features. "You okay?" Sam asked with his voice as well as his fingers.

Dean stared at him for a long moment, green eyes gleaming in the dark, for once, unsure of how to respond.

"Dean?" Sam tried again, worry burrowing deep into his gaze and refusing to leave.

Dean looked away, glancing at his knuckles once more, the thought that they were almost as white as the snowflakes that were falling on the windshield crossing his mind.

_Shit._

He kept his eyes off of Sam, not wanting to see the expression of guilt that would probably be crossing his face once Dean finally opened his mouth.

"Things weren't easy while you were gone, Sam." He let the words run off his lips, hoping his voice didn't sound as worn and beaten as he felt. "Dad and I—" He cut himself off, already feeling his own guilt and insecurities creeping across his chest. "We did the best we could, but it...it wasn't the same. And we had some rough patches-" He felt Sam's hand clamp down on his wrist, and it took every last bit of strength and restraint not to jump out of his skin at the touch. He bit his bottom look and forced his brow to lower as he glanced at his brother.

"By rough patches—did he hurt you?" Sam questioned, his blue eyes flickering with guilt but more than anything anger. There was definite anger and a fury that Dean had only ever seen in his father's eyes before, and it chilled Dean to the bone.

He met Sam's anger with some of his own though, brows narrowing even lower. "No," he lied, finally attempting to jerk out of his brother's grip. "Let go," he warned, but when he dared look his brother in the eyes, he found that the younger man was doing anything but. "Sammy..."

Sam only squeezed tighter, refusing to step down.

_Stubborn bastard..._

"I want the truth, Dean. Just once, I just want you to be honest with me." Sam's jaw was clenched so tight that Dean thought he was going to break his teeth.

"I already told you-"

"And I don't believe you!" Sam shouted, the veins in his neck starting to bulge. "You have been acting strange ever since you came to get me. I'm _not_ stupid, Dean! I can tell when something's wrong with you. Just because we haven't see each other for four years doesn't mean shit, and you know it! Now tell me what happened!"

Dean was almost positive that if Sam didn't let go of his wrist soon, someone was going to go to sleep with a broken bone, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be him.

"If you don't let go of me-"

"I'm not letting go-" Sam squeezed even tighter, the grip almost crushing, "until you tell me what happened between you two!"

Dean could feel his heart pounding and his body beginning to shake. He didn't know how much more he could stand it.

"What happened, Dean?" Sam grit out, hating himself for the bruises that were going to be on Dean's wrist in the next few hours, but knowing that it was the only way he was going to get his brother to talk.

"He got possessed, Sam! Dad got fucking possessed!" Dean all but screamed, immediately regretting the words after he spoke them. He felt Sam's hold disappear almost instantly, but even after, he could still feel the phantom clasp of his brother's hand upon his wrist. All he could do was stare at the reddened skin, blinking back the tears of anger and guilt that were congregating in his eyes.

Silence fell over the car, and it took less than five seconds for Dean to send a glance at his brother before he exited the car, slamming the door shut behind him and stomping towards their room. He left Sam to sit in stunned silence as he disappeared into the room.

_Shit!_

S*P*N*S*P*N

**A/N- I am so sorry that it took me so long to get this chapter out. I won't even offer up excuses as to why, but nonetheless, I want to thank each and every one of you who've stuck with me this long. MANY, MANY THANKS to dandy44, shammy101, HPSmallCharm29, babyreaper, CrazyDreamin, kisscazador, renniespice, Lbdba, Glades of Grey, and Anon(I read all three of your reviews, and no, they didn't bother me at all. And you're not selfish at all, ok? I was touched by your words, and I'm glad the little boy is doing better now, and that you were looking out for him. ;) Any time you need to talk, I'm here.) Once again, thank you all, and I hope the chapter sufficed! ;)**


	5. BlindingRoads

**The Illusionist II**

**Chapter 5 : Blinding/Roads**

Questions streamed through Sam's mind faster than he could keep track of them, but the only thing that he could hear was Dean's voice, telling him over and over again that their father had been possessed while he'd been away, enjoying college life.

Guilt stabbed him in the gut, and refused to let go. It wound its way up his chest to his throat, finally stopping in his brain. He swallowed thickly, but it didn't make the feeling subside. It stayed there like a lead weight, keeping him anchored to the seat he was still sitting in. He let out a breath and pushed his hair out of his eyes, forcing his other hand to open the door.

"_He got possessed, Sam! Dad got fucking possessed!"_

The look of sheer hurt on his brother's face when he'd said those words made Sam ache to his bones. In all his years, he'd never seen that expression on Dean's visage before. Pain, fear, terror and hate all rolled into those green eyes that tried to never give away anything, but Sam saw it. He saw all of it, and hated what it did to him.

He cracked open the door and managed to slide out of the car, the frigid air hitting him and blowing more stray hairs right back into his face. He shivered and closed the door, catching sight of the tiniest of dents on the side paneling. Something about the newly discovered blemish on the Impala made his skin crawl, and his heart sink even further. His mind couldn't help but lead him to wonder if a piece of his brother hadn't caused that dent, unintentionally, of course.

_You should've been there..._

Sam quickly made his way to their room, almost afraid at what he'd find when he went in. With a shaking hand, he turned the knob, his gaze falling on Dean who was currently pacing back and forth, his lips moving but no sound befalling them. Even from his distance, Sam could still see the tear tracks that ran down his brother's sunken cheeks. He wondered if he could despise himself anymore than he already did.

None of this would have happened if he had just stayed.

He kept his eyes on Dean as he stepped into the room, taking in his brother's sorry state. Aside from the tear stains, he was covered in dirt, and his jeans were wracked with holes. They were old and worn and baggy, just like every other pair of jeans he owned. The more Sam thought about it, the more he realized that Dean didn't own a brand new pair of anything. Even his boots were on their last leg.

Had their father been possessed the whole time he was gone?

The thought terrified him, his eyes widening at the assumption.

Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and walked over to his brother, hating the way Dean jumped when he turned around to face him. Sam didn't miss the flare of fear that washed over his brother's greens before seeing that it was just him.

And not their possessed father.

"We need to talk," Sam forced himself to utter, almost grimacing at his own words. He knew the last thing his brother wanted to do was actually _talk_, and God forbid, get something off his chest instead of holding it in until he broke; but it had to be done. Sam had to know what the hell happened. What he had _let_ happen...

Dean stared at him for a moment until his brow finally lowered. He shook his head and mumbled, "I have to take a shower," before turning away and heading towards the bathroom.

Sam didn't hesitate when he reached out, grabbing firmly onto his brother's thin bicep and spinning him around. "No," Sam simply stated, much to his brother's bemusement. "You can't just go take a hot shower and scrub whatever happened off!" His voice was raising, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Sometimes, tough love was necessary; just not the violent kind. If he didn't get Dean to talk about it now, he knew his brother probably never would. He sighed internally, feeling like a broken record player.

There were tears threatening to spill over onto Dean's cheeks, and the guilt that Sam was reeling in before only worsened, feeling as if he'd been hit with a ten-ton truck. "_Please_," he let the single word fall from his lips, watching the way Dean's brow raised with slight surprise. He slowly released his grip, inwardly telling himself that it was a habit he was going to have to stop.

"Fine, what do you want to know?" His brother's voice was soft and surprisingly not standoffish like he thought it would be. It almost sounded...defeated, completely and utterly defeated.

"First things first," Sam started off. "When did it happen? Hell, _how_ did it happen?" The hardly noticeable flinch that wracked his brother's thin frame after the his last question only made him all the more curious. "Dean?" he asked gently, one eyebrow quirking up.

After letting another moment of silence pass between them, Dean finally answered. "About a month and half before I came to get you, so two, almost three months ago?" His voice sounded worn now, and older than it should. And just so damned _tired_.

"Only two months?" Sam replied, shocked. A part of him wanted to refuse to believe it, because the state his brother was in now took a lot more than just two months to achieve.

Dean nodded slowly. That was when he broke eye contact, choosing to stare at the floor instead of at Sam. As he began to speak, a far away look spread over his eyes. "W-We were in Wyoming when we got a call from Caleb about some people offing their families in Nebraska." He started to fidget with the hem of his jacket, thin fingers pulling at the fabric. "Dad already had a clue to what it was, but I-I didn't."

Concern marked Sam's face as he heard his brother's breath hitch in his throat, and something sounding like a half-sob come out of his throat. He immediately wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders and guided him to the bed, not liking the slight swaying of Dean's body as he stood. They both sat down, side by side, but Dean still refused to look at him.

"Sammy..." He paused to lick his chapped lips, eyes still glazed with tears. "Sammy," he repeated, his voice breaking, "Dad knew it was a demon because he'd dealt with it before. Sixteen years ago." He was silent as he chanced a glance up at Sam, confusion drawing the youngest Winchester's brow down.

Sam did the math in his head, brow managing to lower even further. "You would've been nine," he said the words, trying to understand what they meant. "Nine," he repeated, and realized what the significance of that particular age was. "That's how old you were when..." he let his voice trail off, finally understanding. "Oh, God, so you're saying-"

"It made Dad choose between you and me." Dean's voice was soft, not a trace of anger or jealousy in his tone.

Sam, however, felt like he'd just been punched in the stomach. The taste of bile rose from his throat to his mouth, but he bit back the taste, eyes watering. He didn't want to believe the words he was hearing—they just sounded like nonsense to his ears. Nonsense. Their dad could be a right bastard, he knew, but never would he have chosen between his sons, would he?

"How do you..." Sam started but cut himself off when Dean carefully pulled their father's journal from the inside of his jacket pocket. He'd been guarding it with his life since they'd found it, not even letting Sam get a peak of the pages within it. He gently dropped it on Sam's lap, looking to the carpeted floor once more.

Sam hesitantly picked it up, biting the inside of his cheek. The book felt heavy in his hands even though he knew it couldn't weigh more than a pound or so; it just felt like more because of the contents that were inside of it. He flipped through the pages absentmindedly when he heard Dean's barely-there voice begin to speak again.

"It got to me first," he whispered, the confession jerking Sam's head from the journal. "There was this little boy, and...the bitch possessed him. I didn't know, and I was trying to help him." A choked laugh escaped his lips, a hand going up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I didn't even have a clue. Next thing I know, everything goes black. I don't remember too much of it, because it didn't really last that long. It was just using me to get to Dad. And it did." He harshly wiped a tear that had managed to stray from the confines of his tear ducts away with the back of his sleeve and sniffed.

Sam stayed quiet, letting Dean get it all out.

"He was possessed for two weeks before I even _realized_ it, Sammy!" Dean whisper-shouted angrily, green eyes still agleam, his gaze finding its way back to Sam. Guilt was clearly written all over his face, but there was something else there as well.

Shock.

Like he'd just admitted to something that he in no way, shape, or form should have.

Sam stared at him, his heart pounding in his ears. He was not expecting the day to turn out like it had. That was for damned sure. And he was most definitely not expecting Dean to tell him that he couldn't tell the difference from their father being normal and being _possessed_.

Sam steeled himself, taking in a deep breath before he spoke next. The fact that Dean had purposely turned his head away from him again was a signal that this was just going to go from bad to worse.

Quickly.

Sam's hand found Dean's wrist again, encircling it gently as he wrapped his fingers around it. He didn't miss the way his brother attempted to jerk it out of his grasp, though to no avail. Sam was stronger than Dean now, and if he had to use that fact for his advantage, then so be it. It was for his own good, at least, that's what he kept telling himself.

"No," Dean whispered, shaking his head. "Just...no."

Sam sighed and carefully raised his other hand to Dean's chin, daring to ease it in his direction so that they were eye to eye. "Dean, I know it hurts, but please, just tell me what happened. Please?"

Dean was shaking now, trembling beneath Sam's fingertips. His lips moved, but nothing came out. Another tear leaked from his eyes and made a trail down his cheek, but before he could make a move to swipe at it, Sam gingerly rubbed it away with his thumb. "Take a deep breath and relax," Sam instructed, watching his brother watch his lips move. Dean glanced up into his eyes and swallowed. After a few seconds passed, he nodded and did so.

"Things..." He paused, and Sam could see that he was still hesitant to speak. Dean adverted his brother's gaze once more and chose a spot on the carpet to focus on. "Things got bad after you left, Sammy. Dad-" He cut the words short and cleared his throat. "Dad was angry after you went away. And...I couldn't stop messing up!" he said, voice raising, glancing back into Sam's eyes. "You weren't there, and I was bad back-up and I-I just wasn't you. I'm not you," he said quietly, eyes falling even more downcast.

Sam was fairly positive that his heart had broken into a million little tiny pieces and was now drifting endlessly through his bloodstream, probably never to be whole anymore.

"He hates me, Sammy," and this time, Dean sobbed, tears falling freely and fast down a broken face.

Sam wrapped a protective arm around him and pulled him close, suddenly feeling much older and more like the older brother with each minute that passed. Dean was trembling in his arms, his thin frame wracked with tremors. Even through all the layers, Sam could still feel the ridges of his spine as he rubbed a hand soothingly on Dean's back and it was no wonder his brother was in the condition that he was. He was almost afraid at what else was hiding underneath Dean's clothes.

_He's been there for you all this time, helped you with anything and everything. It's your turn to be there for him._

The dreams Sam had been having suddenly invaded his mind, and it all made sense. He felt like an ass for not seeing it sooner. Their father had abused Dean, and once Sam actually let the thought come to fruition, anger flooded through him swiftly and efficiently. His grip on Dean got tighter, but he was pretty sure his brother didn't even notice.

Sam was sure of one thing, when they found their father, it wasn't going to be pretty.

Not at all.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Flurries were gently collecting on the windshield of the Impala as Sam drove it down the interstate. He glanced over at his brother who was currently asleep in the passenger seat, knees drawn up to his chest and off to the side a bit. He looked as though he had tried to make himself as small as he possibly could and then some. Sam shook his head and glanced back at the road, jaw clenching as thoughts of his father and what he was going to do to the man when he found him drumming through his mind.

It had been two weeks since Dean had spilled his guts to him, and his brother hadn't spoken a word since. He'd reverted back to only signing, and then, only when it was absolutely needed. Sam could tell that he'd somehow managed to lose even more weight, his face being the only indication since Dean refused to wear anything less than three layers at a time. The clouded light that flooded through the windows only showcased the hollows of his brother's cheeks and the sharpness of his cheek and jaw bones.

He looked sickly, but somehow managed to keep up with whatever they were hunting. Sam honestly didn't know how he did it.

He'd tried to get Dean to eat more than the meager crumbs he called a meal, but his brother insisted with a furious shake of the head every time Sam encouraged him to eat more that he was full.

Sam highly doubted that.

If he'd been more immature and less rational, he would've given Dean the _I'm-not-going-to-eat-if-you're-not_-_going-to-eat_ charade, but he knew that wouldn't get them anywhere faster than they already were. It would only make things worse, and Sam wondered if that were actually possible. He wasn't sure how much worse things could get if something didn't change soon.

Sure, he knew what it was like to be depressed and along with that came loss of appetite, but something told him it was more than that. Dean still insisted upon training on a daily basis, whether Sam thought it was a good idea or not. Some days, he'd watch Dean leave the motel room for a run and not come back for two hours. Others, he'd feign low blood sugar just to get his brother to stay. He hated doing it, but he didn't see many other options at this point. If he didn't do something quick...he didn't want to consider what would happen if he didn't.

The flurries were starting to turn into fat flakes by the time he crossed the Michigan state border, and he'd decided about a half hour later that the next town they came across he was going to stop in, regardless of their actual destination. It was getting late, and the last thing he wanted to do was have an accident.

His gaze traveled from the road back to Dean, who was now staring out the window with half-lidded eyes. He'd finally uncurled his legs from his chest and stretched them out in front of him, though his head was still laid back against the seat, strands of light brown hair falling just above his eyebrows. Sam knew any day Dean was going to walk out of the bathroom with it shorter, but for some reason, he'd been neglecting it lately.

Another odd thing that nagged at Sam.

His brother had hardly even been remembering to put his ever-usual gel in his hair. It'd just been getting longer, still combed, but untouched.

Sam almost laughed inwardly at the thought of them both having the same hair style, but he knew hell would freeze over before that happened. He couldn't rid himself of the smirk that still managed to cross his lips though.

It quickly vanished when he realized Dean was now staring at him, a _what? e_xpression on his face.

Sam shook his head, and said, "It's nothing."

Dean stared at him disbelieving for a little while longer before letting his eyes be pulled back to the frozen landscape outside of the car. All the trees that surrounded both sides of the highway were dead, branches reaching out atop the road looking more like skeletal arms and hands and fingers than just a part of nature. Sam watched him shiver and pull his jacket tighter around his too-thin frame.

A sign on the side of the road informed Sam that the town was just up the road and to the left, so he followed its direction, pulling off the main highway and onto the off-ramp. He turned onto the crossing street and continued on, casting sideways glances at Dean while looking for a motel to pull into. The town was small enough, and within a few minutes of driving past a couple of gas stations and some fast food restaurants, he came upon one, a sign stating that there were vacancies flickering with welcome.

He pulled the car up to the main office building and killed the engine. "I'll be back in just a minute, 'kay?" he asked, looking over at his brother.

Dean nodded, silent as ever.

Sam let his gaze linger but not long enough to annoy his brother.

Too much.

He got out of the car and jogged inside to the main office, a cheap wreath hanging on the door that had Feliz Navidad written on it. A bell jingled when he opened the door and went over to the counter. There was no one in sight, but as he peered behind the counter and at the door that was half-way open behind it, he saw some children and a few adults watching a television, _It's a Wonderful Life _playing with the sound up fairly loud. In Spanish, no less. He sighed and pressed the buzzer that was marked PRESS FOR ASSISTANCE. It took a moment, but finally he saw movement in the other room and an older Hispanic man coming his way.

"Uh, hi," he greeted the man with a nod, impatience in his tone. He didn't want Dean to have to stay out in the cold any longer than necessary. "One room, two beds, please."

The man stared at him a moment before glancing down at the guest book in front of him. "Lo siento*," the man said, shaking his head. "One room, but only one bed."

Sam bit his bottom lip. Dean was going to hate this, but knowing their luck, this place was probably the only one available in this town. And Sam wasn't going to drive anywhere else tonight, the roads were becoming too slick as it were.

And there was no way in hell he was going to let Dean drive either.

"Fine," he said, with a nod. "I'll take it."

The other man smiled and nodded, took his credit card information and gave him a key. "Gracias*."

"Yeah, gracias," Sam repeated with a faked, polite grin. He hurriedly accepted the key and went back out to the car. Dean was already standing in front of it, trying to hide how badly he was shivering. He had both their duffels slung over his shoulders, and Sam rolled his eyes when he went to take his but Dean shrugged away from it, signaling that he, in fact, had them _thank you very much_. "Whatever," Sam mumbled and led the way to their room.

He hated the fact that his brother felt he had to now prove himself all the time.

The talk that they had two weeks previous didn't seem to help at all. If anything, it seemed like it had actually made things worse. Sam was becoming more and more protective, and Dean was becoming more and more standoffish. The thought almost made him laugh, because never in a million years did he see their roles reversing.

_Ha._

Sam cracked open the door and the smell of stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener immediately assaulted his nose. He wrinkled it slightly in return and flipped on the light switch, moving out of the way as he did so so that Dean could come in.

Everything was quiet until he heard the duffels drops and Dean make a noise, somewhere between a grunt and a scoff.

Sam immediately turned to face him after setting up his laptop on the standard, cheap motel table. His brother was staring at the single queen bed, jaw visibly tightened underneath his skin. Sam sighed, knowing what was coming.

Dean glanced at him and pointed to the floor, telling Sam in his own sweet way that that was where he'd be sleeping.

_As if._

"No," Sam said, shaking his head. "You're not sleeping on the floor. Look, I'm sorry, but this was all they had. It _is_ almost Christmas, you know," he added for emphasis, though he was pretty sure Dean didn't give a damn.

Dean rolled his eyes and held both his hands out in front of him, palms facing down. Then, as sharply as he could, he poked himself in his chest with his right thumb, fingers held out in a "five" shape.

"The floor is _not_ fine, Dean. The bed is big enough for the both of us, and I promise, I won't touch you. Okay?"

He heard the silent, frustrated sigh escape between Dean's lips as he mouthed "_whatever", _though doing so without signing.

Ever since Dean had opened up to him, he'd closed himself off even more, and Sam wasn't sure how much longer he could take it.

The worst part was, Dean hadn't exactly given him any details about the entire situation. He'd just left Sam had to make an educated guess and run with it. He still wasn't quite sure of everything that had happened while he was gone. Just that it had been bad.

Really bad.

And that Dean was done talking about it.

Other than that, his older brother didn't go into specifics, so he hadn't a clue. Which was quite frustrating, all things considered.

On one hand, he was happy that Dean had at least opened up to him, but if he had known it would be like this afterward...

Dean had claimed the right side of the bed as his, and was currently digging a pair of sweatpants from his bag, all the while doing his best to ignore Sam.

It didn't take long for the youngest Winchester to catch on. Sam hated the silence between them, hated the distance that was separating them even though they were mere feet apart. They were brothers, and yet they were acting anything but at the moment.

Sam made his way over to his "designated" side and flopped down, brown locks _whooshing_ up before falling back in front of his eyes. He could tell that that act alone annoyed his older brother, but at least he had gotten his attention. It took a moment, but finally Dean caught his gaze, more than reluctant to hold onto it.

"Dean, you've got to stop."

The middle Winchester's brow immediately narrowed, anger creeping across his forehead. He shrugged noncommittally as if to say "_what?"_

"I don't think any less of you for telling me what you did. You can't hold everything in forever," Sam replied, thankful that his brother was at least taking the time to read his lips. He was trying desperately not to think of their father, because he knew if he did, his anger would get the best of him.

Dean responded by folding both of his hands and bringing them to his chest, making sure to overemphasize the corresponding sigh for the "tired" sign.

"You do realize the reason you've been so tired lately is because you haven't been eating nearly enough, right?" He hated that he was letting anger creep into his body language—into his brow—but his patience was fading with each brushoff his brother gave him.

Dean clenched his jaw once more, bringing his right hand to his mouth in a squished "O" shape and tapping his lips a few times (movements still sharp) before bringing his hand down to his chest in the "five" shape again, and tapping his thumb harshly against it.

"You think eating once a day is _fine_? Is that what Dad taught you?" Sam spat, regretting the words instantaneously.

The look of hurt that flashed across Dean's eyes quickly faded, replaced once again with anger, but Sam wasn't blind.

He'd seen it.

He also didn't miss the way Dean promptly broke eye contact and snatched a pillow off the bed, proceeding to head straight for the floor.

"Dammit, Dean," Sam grumbled, getting up from the bed and practically stomping around to the other side. He was about to kneel down, could feel himself reaching for Dean's arm (something he'd been doing way too much of lately), but he stopped himself short when his brother brought a firm hand up to his mouth without actually touching it, and quickly brought it back down above his left hand, crisscrossing them over each other, but not making contact with it either, all the while keeping his gaze on the floor.

Sam nodded curtly, standing back up with his hands resting on his hips, lips slightly pursed. "Yeah, good night, Dean."

_And he calls me stubborn._

Shaking his head, he made his way back over to the other side of the bed and sat down. He slipped off his boots and pulled nightclothes from his bag, deciding to just change right there. After he'd pulled them on, he got under the covers and closed his eyes, tired yet hesitant to let himself fall asleep.

The room wasn't exactly winter-proof, and even under the sheet and two blankets, he was still quite cold. And that only told him that if he was still freezing, Dean had to be suffering.

Running a hand through his hair, he sat up and scooted across the bed, peering down to the floor were Dean was currently shivering on his side, legs tucked almost up to his chest, and arms folded just above them.

He was half-way tempted to just scoop his brother up and toss him on the bed regardless, but since the stubborn bastard was such a light sleeper and insufferable at the moment, Sam settled for yanking the blankets up off the bed and laying them gently across his brother's thin form.

Surprisingly, the older hunter didn't stir, just laid there in the same position, brow drawn even in sleep.

Sam shook his head and settled back in underneath the lone cover.

He'd make due for tonight.

A little chill never hurt anyone, at least, that's what he kept trying to tell himself as he fell into a restless sleep.

**A/N- That came out a little longer and more angstier than I imagined it. Anyway, THANK YOU ALL so much for your lovely reviews. I really do appreciate them! :) Many THANKS to kissacazador, Glades of Grey, astafir, HPSmallCharm29, babyreaper, incredible ANON ;), dandy44, CrazyDreamin, renniespice, Sjoeks, Lbdba, all of you who have favorited me, and all of you who reviewed Me, I'm Not. Thank you all so much for continued support of this story. :D Hope this chapter sufficed. **

***I'm sorry**

***Thank you  
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	6. No Light, No Light

**The Illusionist II**

**Chapter 6 : No Light, No Light**

**Four Days after Christmas**

Sam grunted as he hit the floor, any air that he had in his lungs dispelled, leaving him gasping for breath. He looked up through his bangs (after this was over, he was so getting a hair cut), and saw Dean and the white-haired being circling one another. Its crimson eyes flicked over to him momentarily, a smile creeping across its blood red lips.

It smiled, showcasing its gleaming, bleached-white teeth. Even from across the room and in the dim lighting, Sam could still see them, looking as sharp as a piranha's. It took every bit of restraint not to shiver. They'd fought many creatures and monsters in their lives, but never one of these.

He tried to push himself up off the dirty, dust-covered floor boards but his body refused to cooperate. Instead, his arm gave out, sending him right back down to the creaking, rotted floor. His gaze shot back up to his brother who was starting to look more and more like a caged animal as the Grine continued to back him up into a corner of the room.

Sam grit his teeth, forcing himself up, feet still stumbling as he stood. His head swam and he realized at that moment that if there was as bad a time as any, now was probably the worst for his blood sugar to drop.

Even though the almost empty house was freezing, sweat slicked his back and palms. He could feel his hands starting to shake, the grip on his weapon starting to loosen as the seconds ticked by. It didn't take long before he felt weak, and as he watched his brother get thrown up against a wall, he knew they were fucked.

"Leave him alone!" he managed to grind out, his throat scratchy from the layers of sawdust coating everything.

The creature paused, its movements slow and mechanical as it reached out for Dean. It peered over at Sam, its pale skin appearing transparent in the scant light. It tilted its head back and laughed, something low and gravelly that came from deep down in its throat and sent chills down Sam's spine. Now was no time for fear, but he could all but feel it, its tendrils creeping across his body and holding him still.

He pushed himself forward as he watched it take its claws (vicious looking things that were probably clear once in its lifetime, but were now a faded copper color, stained but still razor sharp) and smack his struggling brother across the face, leaving four deep gashes in his pale flesh.

The sound (a choked-out whimper) Dean made afterward only fueled Sam's determination, causing him to place his pain on the back-burner and ready his knife. He forgot all about how badly his hands were shaking until the sound of something metal falling to the floor entered his mind, the resounding _thud_ forcing his gaze from the creature to the place where his three-days-old blood soaked weapon laid.

"Dammit!" he spat out, his movements uncoordinated and off. He glanced up just in time to see the Grine coming towards him, a demented sneer upon its face.

Yeah, they were totally fucked.

**Two days before Christmas**

The room was still devoid of any light when Sam opened his eyes, still unsure of what exactly woke him up. He took in a deep breath and saw his brother closing the motel door behind him as he stepped into the room. Even in the dark, Sam could see how flushed his brother's face was, and how badly he was shivering (even in God knew how many layers).

Sam sat up, feeling the stirrings of anger start to whisk around his brain. He glanced at the clock, the red numbers stating that it was, in fact, only 5:33 A.M. Before he could control himself, his legs were already sliding over the edge of the bed, feet coming into contact with carpet that was so threadbare, he was sure he could feel the cold floor underneath.

He didn't catch his brother by surprise, as he knew, Dean could see very well in the dark. However, he was pretty sure Dean wouldn't be prepared for the lights to flip on, or Sam moving as quickly as he was.

Even though the sudden illumination of the room hurt his eyes as well, he knew it was just that much harder on his brother's eyes—enough to keep him seeing black and blue spots for the next five minutes anyway.

Dean squinted at him, top lip curling back slightly in annoyance. His fingers automatically spelled out the letters W,T, and F.

Sam rolled his eyes at this, fury scrawled across his brow.

"What the hell were you doing?" Sam shouted, and he wondered in the back of his mind if Dean thought it was foolish when people yelled at him. He quickly shoved the musing away and decided that he didn't care, and he'd raise his voice if he wanted to, deafness be damned. Dean _needed_ to know he was upset.

Dean put a fake grin on his face, and that only solidified in Sam's mind that some smartass remark was sure to follow. With his right hand, Dean formed an "O" shape with his fingers just underneath his chin, then threw his hand forward into a loose "five" shape; then keeping his hand in the "five" shape, brought it back up to his chin and tapped it twice with his thumb, sharply, of course.

_Nothin', Mom._

Sam's lips pursed at that, anger making his hands turn into fists at his sides. "Not funny, Dean."

The smile quickly slid off his brother's face, a hint of worry arching his eyebrows when he saw Sam's reaction. The look only lasted a few seconds, but it didn't go unheeded by the younger brunette.

He felt horrible for making Dean feel apprehensive.

Sam was _not_ their father.

Dean shouldn't have to worry about getting hit because of just being himself. Smartass as he was sometimes, he didn't deserve it, but, Sam thought, he shouldn't be trying to kill himself either by training too hard. Especially in freezing weather.

Dean swayed slightly where he stood and Sam immediately reacted, reaching a hand out to steady him, but as he moved closer, he realized something.

Dean was not in his usual workout clothes. In fact, he was still in the same attire he had worn the day before, which meant that he hadn't slept since then. The smell of alcohol suddenly blasted Sam's senses, and for the life of him, he couldn't believe he'd missed it.

The scent was instantly overpowering, and he came to the conclusion that his brother was drunk; exhausted still, but drunk nonetheless.

He hadn't been running himself into the ground. No, he'd been drowning himself in whiskey instead.

Sam huffed, jaw clenching when he saw how blood-shot Dean's eyes were.

He wanted to be angry, but the feeling that had crept upon him before was gone, leaving a trace of pity in its wake.

"Why are you doing this to yourself, huh?" The question was asked gently, and Sam knew that Dean could still understand what he was saying and how he was saying it, even if he wasn't as quick on the draw as usual.

Dean just shook his head in response a few seconds later, letting his gaze fall to the floor. He didn't even try to shrug off Sam's hand, and that worried the younger hunter more than anything. Dean wasn't a passive person, and the fact that he was allowing Sam to touch him meant something was wrong. Sam squeezed his arm in the most careful way possible, not wanting to scare Dean further. Dean lifted his gaze from the carpet to Sam, and when he did, the younger hunter could see the faint wetness in his brother's eyes.

Dean's movements were a bit sluggish as he closed his hand into an "a" shape and brought it to his chest, moving it clockwise a few times before finger-spelling _S-A-M-M-Y._ He sniffed and looked on the verge of falling over.

Sam shook his head, his heart beginning to hurt. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, Dean. It's alright," he said, glad that his brother couldn't hear how bad he felt. He knew that it was probably written all over his face though. "Let's get you to bed, okay?" he asked, without waiting for a response. Before Dean could collapse, Sam wrapped an arm around his waist (_far too thin, dammit Dean,_ Sam thought) and helped him over to his side of the bed. He quickly pulled back the covers and sat Dean down, his brother barely able to stay sitting while Sam pulled off his boots, frowning at the state they were in.

Sam couldn't believe he'd missed the duct tape that was wrapped around the toe of his brother's left boot or the way the heel was coming apart from the rest of the old leather. He sighed and sat the worn footwear on the floor next to the nightstand.

He didn't care how, but they were most definitely going to get some new clothes and shoes soon. A sound broke his train of thought, and his gaze immediately shot to his brother's face, tears now trickling down his cheeks.

"'M sorry, S'mmy." The slurred words were barely audible, just a faint whisper on Dean's lips. Sam could hear his older brother's breath hitch, green eyes closed tightly, too embarrassed of himself to even even meet Sam's gaze. "'S all my fault."

Sam's lips and teeth came together, instinct already forcing him to make _shushing_ noises even though Dean couldn't hear him. He laid his hand on the back of his brother's head (for comfort but to also keep him momentarily upright), fingertips brushing through the light brown locks and gently scraping against the nape of his neck. He could feel Dean sink into the touch, but his brother was still distraught, shaking his head as a sob escaped his throat.

"He was stuck with me, didn't have you anymore. 'Course he was mad. Who would wanna be stuck with me?" Dean was hanging his head now, his voice still barely audible. Sam had to lean in close in the quiet room just to hear his brother's words. "Sorry, Sammy. Sorry you're stuck with me now."

Sam blinked tears out of his own eyes. He hadn't realized just how broken his brother was. Stuck with him? Dean was one of the best hunters he knew. And there was no questioning how great of a brother he was. Dean wouldn't think twice about putting his own self at risk. No matter what, he'd always watched over Sam. And the youngest Winchester had done some pretty dumb things in his life, but no matter what, Dean was always there for him. Stuck with him? Hardly. No. Not at all.

Sam _really_ hated their father.

He brushed the tears from Dean's cheeks, the action only making his brother scrunch his eyes closed tighter.

"He was mad. He had every right. Screwed up...I'm a screw-up, Sammy." He was murmuring now, lips barely moving.

Sam instantly wrapped his arms around him, pulling his brother into an embrace, a hand still gently placed on the back of his head. He could feel Dean slowly lean into him and bury his head in his shoulder, the material of his shirt becoming damp. Sam squeezed him a little tighter, feeling Dean's hands grip at the sides of his sleep shirt.

Somehow, they both fell asleep, Dean still wrapped tightly in Sam's arms.

Of course the next day, Dean had forgotten all about it. Or acted like it anyway.

Sam knew better.

**Four Days After Christmas**

Sam's vision was swimming badly, but he was able to make out his brother's smaller form, crawling across the floor towards the Grine.

"Try as you might, you can't get rid of me," it said, voice something of another world. It made Sam's ears burn, and his hands immediately shot up to cover them. It only laughed in response, and the noise made the younger hunter drop to his knees. The voice was deep, too deep to be a human's yet mixed with a screeching undertone and he could still hear it even with his hands clasped over his ears.

It was almost as if the _thing's_ voice was in his head.

His thoughts were confirmed when he saw his brother's eyes open wide, the sea of green apparent even through his low blood sugar haze.

They had went into this hunt almost blind, something that they hated, but happened here and there. There wasn't too much information to be had on what they were hunting, and there was even less information on how to kill it.

All they knew is that there was something bad going on in Albion, Michigan; and that was were the coordinates on Dean's phone led them to.

It was still a sore spot between them—the fact that their father was still texting Dean co-ords—and the fact that Dean was still insistent upon following them. They'd had their share of arguments about the subject, but Dean had put it plainly that _"even though they're from Dad, the people still need our help."_

The look on his brother's face had convinced Sam that he was right, but as Sam stared at the white-haired creature before him, he wasn't so sure.

This wasn't a typical werewolf or wendigo or vengeful spirit; no, this was a Grine, a djinn type of being that was born into an adjacent world when its human counterpart was born. According to Moroccan myth, everyone had one, only somehow, Randall Winters' (the unlucky bastard they were now fighting) one had somehow managed to find a gap and crossed over into this plane, all the while taking over its earthly twin and destroying the man. They still held the same face and body, but the man Sam had read about—the Randall Winters that was a fourth grade school teacher, beloved by all his students and staff—was now a demonic killer who'd already murdered three people, his wife and own mother included.

After sifting through pages and pages of myths and theories on how to destroy such a creature, the only one they could find involved a silver knife coated with three-days old blood from a deceased person, and stabbing the monster straight in the heart, careful to turn the knife counterclockwise one full rotation. Anywhere else—even a fraction of an inch to the left or right—would only piss it off and make it more likely to kill its attacker.

So basically, they had one chance, and from Sam's vantage point, it wasn't looking so good right now.

He watched as Dean grabbed a hold of its leg, the Grine immediately responding to the contact by kicking his brother in the face with its opposite limb, sneering all the while. Dean, on the other hand, wasn't about to give up, and Sam hated the weakness that he was feeling all the more for it. Black spots danced before his eyes, and though he desperately tried to keep himself from passing out, he still felt it coming.

He probably only had a few minutes til his vision blacked out completely.

And if that happened...

Scratch that—he didn't want to even consider the thought.

He and Dean were getting out of this, no matter what.

**Christmas Day**

The light shining through the motel window was bright, but not sun-filled. Snow covered the ground outside and beyond, four to five inches at least, Sam guessed as he peered out, his eyes still hazed with sleep. He yawned as the bathroom door opened, remnants of steam from his brother's shower filtering out. Sam glanced at him, then did a lazy double take, his head moving more slowly due to his tiredness.

Sure enough, as he'd predicted, Dean's hair was short, trimmed back down to within an inch or two of his skull, gel holding it firmly in place.

His brother's eyes met his gaze when he realized he was being stared at, his shoulders automatically shrugging in his now commonplace _"What?"_ gesture.

"You cut your hair," was all Sam said in response, folding his arms tighter across his chest. The room was freezing, the heater working but on its last leg.

"_And?"_ Dean mouthed, the tips of all his fingers and thumb on his right hand pressing together just in front of his chest and spreading apart as he moved his hand across his chest.

Sam clenched his jaw, trying not to get upset at the moodiness his brother was currently showcasing. "Just an observation. _That's all_," Sam stated, signing the last part with a tight smile on his face. He'd gotten so used to having Dean read his lips that he'd hardly been signing at all as of late. He figured it was important that Dean knew he hadn't forgotten, and he could still move his hands and fingers just as sharply.

Dean just looked at him for a moment, an unsure expression set upon his face. A few seconds ticked by before Sam watched his brother make his way over to the table, pulling out a chair and sitting down. Sam imagined a line going straight down the middle of the poor thing; his laptop and a few books piled neatly on one side, and their guns lined neatly up on the other side, ready for Dean to clean them for the umpteenth time in a row.

Sam sighed and sat down opposite of his brother, bringing both elbows up on the tabletop and resting his chin in between his hands. Eventually, Dean realized he was being stared at and glanced up, the familiar shrug of his shoulders and exasperation clear on the furrow of his brow.

"It's Christmas. Today," Sam said simply.

Dean stared blankly at him, obviously waiting for his point.

"Just saying," Sam mumbled and looked down at his lap. He'd spent the last three Christmases with Jessica. He'd almost gotten used to putting up a tree and hanging lights around the apartment and having the aroma of her fresh baked Christmas cookies (iced Santas and reindeer) waiting for him as he came through the door. It had made her happy, and that in itself had made him happy.

Those days were long gone.

She was gone.

He cleared his throat in an attempt to get rid of the lump that had decided to form there, but as hard as he tried, it stayed put.

He was on Winchester time now, he told himself, and Christmas wasn't exactly on their to-do list. There was a hunt to plan and—

His train of thought was cut short as he felt a hand on his shoulder, thin fingers squeezing ever so lightly.

Sam glanced up, finding water in his eyes as he saw that his brother had somehow managed to sneak from his side of the table over to him, standing above him with a sad expression set upon his visage, mouth drawn into a frown, eyes looking as weary as ever.

"It's okay, Sammy." Dean's voice was tiny, whisper-thin, and barely audible, but Sam was able to hear them. He nodded and sniffed, clearing any traces of tears from his eyes with the heels of his hands. He took in a deep breath and opened his eyes, two beers sitting on the table before him and Dean now back in his chair. He watched Dean pick his up, and couldn't help but let a small smile tug at the corners of his lips as he did the same, his brother tipping it towards him and murmuring in that same whispered, barely there voice, "Merry Christmas, Sammy."

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

It didn't matter that they were already drinking at nine o'clock in the morning.

Hell, it was five o'clock somewhere.

**Four Days After Christmas**

He could feel it's breath ghosting across his face as it held him up against the wall, warm and reeking of blood, the iron odor making him want to gag. He could feel its nails digging into the flesh of his shoulder, even through his jacket, hoodie, and t-shirt. A grunt escaped his lips as it dug in further, and the creature croaked out a laugh in response.

"So weak, and so easy to kill," it cooed menacingly, another nail gracing the tip of his defiant chin.

"That's what you think," Sam spat out through the pain and dizziness in his head, watching as his brother crept up on it, using all the strength he had left to stab it in its back, plunging the long knife into its vital organ and twisting.

Suddenly, the light in the monster's eyes vanished, replaced by two black, lifeless voids. It collapsed to the floor with a defining _thud_, it's body no longer moving. Blood immediately began to pool underneath of it, soaking into the floorboards and puddling around the corpse.

"You did it," Sam mumbled breathlessly, sliding down the wall he'd been pinned against, a misplaced grin on his face. It wasn't long before he felt Dean kneeling beside him, forcing something into his mouth. It was liquid—whatever it was—and tasted like candied strawberries. Sam swallowed it without choking, the goofy grin still in place as he glanced up at his brother.

Dean was covered in blood, but where his began and the creature's ended was hardly discernible to Sam. It all looked like his brother's to him.

"You're hurt. We gotta get you to a h-hospital," Sam slurred worriedly, a hand clamping down on his brother's shoulder and gripping it tightly. "C'mon," he said, attempting to stand up but his legs slid bonelessly back to the floor. "C'mon, Dean. Le's go," he tried again, but his body just wouldn't cooperate.

It wasn't long before he watched Dean retrieve another small, red plastic bottle from his inside pocket and tear the seal off of it. With shaking hands, the older hunter unscrewed the top off and held it up to his brother's lips.

"'S more?" Sam asked, and when Dean nodded in reply, he readily gulped down the too-sweet liquid. After a few minutes, the room became less fuzzy and his eyes more focused. His body had stopped trembling, his hands finally still. Dean was still staring at him from the same position, serious green eyes observant on his every move.

"_Ready_?" Dean mouthed. If he was speaking, Sam couldn't tell because there was no sound that came out of his mouth.

Sam nodded and started to stand, Dean helping him up as he did so. Once he got to his feet, he steadied himself, gaze drifting to Dean's blood and cut-covered hands that were still clasped over his forearm and bicep.

"You okay?" he asked, waving a hand in front of Dean's face when he saw his brother hadn't replied even though he was staring right at him. The older hunter's movements were slower, but he finally responded with a tight nod, eyes briefly glancing at Sam before darting back to the door in front of them. In that moment, Sam could see how badly his brother was straining to remain upright. His jaw was clenched tightly, and there was a bone-deep weariness present in his eyes. His shoulders were pulled taught full of tension though he was walking with his back slightly hunched, as though he couldn't stand fully straight. Sam gave Dean another once-over, trying to determine what exactly was hurting him the most because God knew Dean would never speak up and tell him first.

The older hunter's face was cut open and would probably need to be stitched up; he had a nice sized gash on his right arm, the torn jacket and other shredded layers underneath making Sam aware of just how sharp that bastard's claws had been. Through both of those injuries, Sam was sure the worst one was somewhere on Dean's mid-section. Sam prayed it was only a bruised rib or two, but he knew better. It was never bruised—just fractured or broken.

They'd made it outside, the night air not much colder than it had been in the house, but it still made the both of them shiver. Sam had allowed Dean to help him into the car, though he wondered if he shouldn't be the one to drive when he saw Dean pause at his door, shake his head of whatever cobwebs were flooding it, and finally open his door and get in.

The drive back to the motel was luckily a short one, but the brief distance did nothing to quell his fears.

Dean was pale, and only growing paler.

The moonlight that filtered in through the windshield did nothing but make his brother look more and more like the corpse they'd just left back in that abandoned house, dark shadows falling across his forehead, cheeks, and neck. His lips were pulled tight, and his jaw still tensely set; and the white-knuckled grip he had only the steering wheel only made Sam's gut churn all the more.

Soon, the motel came into view, all the other rooms in the one-story structure dark. Dean pulled up in front of their room and killed the engine, letting out a shaky breath as he did so, something which immediately earned Sam's devout attention.

The brunette lightly tapped his brother on the shoulder, "You sure you're okay?" resonating off his lips just as it had moments before.

He watched his brother take in a deep breath and nod, though he looked anything but. Sam could feel his eyes wanting to roll at the lie, but he kept them in check, and got out of the car. He heard Dean doing the same, but instead of just standing up and closing the door like there wasn't a problem, he heard Dean's boots skidding on the asphalt and the Impala's hinges squeak pathetically. Sam immediately dashed over to the driver's side, only to find Dean hanging onto the door like it was a lifeline. "Dammit, Dean," Sam chided gently as he wrapped an arm around his brother's waist and used the other to wrap Dean's arm around his shoulders. "You don't have to be afraid to say no." Even though he was holding up most of Dean's weight, the short journey to the motel room was anything but hard.

_You shouldn't feel so damned light, Dean_, Sam thought.

He fished the key from one of Dean's pockets (lower right side tonight) and opened the door, getting Dean to the bed before he doubled back around to close it. His brother was a mess, face twisted up in pain, though he was trying damned hard to make it look anything but.

Sam shook his head and immediately started removing the layers covering his brother's thin frame, starting with his jacket. He could tell Dean was reluctant to take anything off, but Sam had to see what damage had been done, regardless of how self-conscious his brother was.

Dean continued to fight as Sam pulled off his Henley, followed by the two t-shirts underneath. Sam couldn't hold back the gasp that filtered through his lips as he took in his brother's sorry state. There _was_ a large gash running in a diagonal line down Dean's mid-section. It was deep and would need to be wrapped, but not deep as intestines spilling out and about everywhere.

The wound was still bleeding, but not that badly. Though, the gash was hardly the worst thing decorating his brother's gaunt frame.

Scars littered his chest and stomach and just about anywhere there was flesh, and it took all the strength Sam had not to lose it right then and there because he knew—he knew—that those were not all hunting wounds.

No, he was pretty damned sure the majority of them were from their father, and now he'd set the thought in stone that whenever they did see their father again, he was sure it would be the last time.

Clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth just might break, Sam retrieved their first aid kit from his duffel and a few towels from the bathroom. By the time he'd made it back to the bed, Dean had passed out. Sam knew that it was more than likely from pure exhaustion that anything. Of course, he'd lost a good enough amount of blood, but not nearly enough to faint over it.

The gashes on his cheek had already clotted over, but would still need to be stitched. Sam quickly made a mental checklist of his brother's wounds, deciding first and foremost to deal with the one on his abdomen to begin with.

He cleaned it with alcohol first once the bleeding had stopped, then began the arduous task of putting his brother's flesh back together, all the while trying to keep himself composed. He forced himself to focus and block out all the other markings adorning Dean's body, including the two crisscrossed, pink slivers that were etched into the middle of his chest. Or the still fresh red line that ran along his left side. Or the thin white line that stretched over his too-prominent collar bone.

He could go on and on.

It was as though his brother's body was a constellation of scars.

Sam could feel the anger—no, hate—returning and bit his bottom lip to keep from accidentally taking it out on his unconscious sibling.

Once he was done with all the stitches (cheek and mid-section), he covered the wounds in gauze and white medical wrappings, managing to exhaust the majority of their first aid supplies.

He sat back for a minute once he was finished, running a bloodied hand through his sweat-slicked hair. He let out a sigh and cleared anything that wasn't a linen or Dean from the bed. Trying to let his brother keep as much dignity as possible, he slid off Dean's ratty jeans, boots, and socks and pulled the covers and blankets over him.

He looked so small; so fragile.

So _un-Dean_ like.

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion hitting him full force.

He couldn't recall a time when he'd ever felt so hopeless.

They'd been searching for their father for two months now, and still didn't have a clue as to where he was. Not one trace, just a bunch of texts leading to hunts that were getting more and more dangerous by the week.

And, of course, Dean had been getting the brunt of the injuries.

It might not have been a spoken fact, but Sam knew it to be true, especially judging by the colorful landscape of scars, cuts, and bruises littering his brother's body.

Sam had his share of them, but they were nothing compared to Dean's.

He let out a breath and grabbed some sweatpants and a t-shirt, telling himself that he'd be lucky if he didn't pass out during the shower he was about to take.

The coming year was going to be a long one; if they both lived long enough to survive it.

**A/N- Once again, I just want to thank you all for your amazing reviews and continued support of this story. Each and every single word means so much to me, so THANK YOU! :D And thanks again to those who've reviewed, including : HPSmallCharm29, babyreaper, shammy101, CrazyDreamin, Sjoeks, Glades of Grey, dandy44, 2People, BethanJonesSPN1996, kissacazador, renniespice, and What You See in the Shadows (I don't know anyone personally that's deaf, just decided that if I was going to write a deaf character, I should do my research, so I've been studying ASL :D). Again, thank you all so much, and I hope this chapter sufficed. **


	7. My Immortal

**The Illusionist II**

**Chapter 7 : My Immortal**

**Warning : Torture, violence, and abuse. Don't say I didn't tell ya so. **

His legs were sore, but it was that good kind of sore—the kind that reminded you that you were doing something—that reminded you were that you were still _alive_.

His calves burned all the way back to the motel and he was covered in sweat (even in the frigid thirty-five degree weather) by the time he fished the key from his hoodie pocket. He quickly hurried in and shut the door behind him, rushing over to the standard motel heater/air conditioning unit, placing his frozen hands where hot air should be coming out, only to find nothing blowing out of the machine. He shivered involuntarily, his body recognizing that it was just about as cold in the motel room as it had been outside. His brow lowered as he messed with the unit, only to find that no matter how much banging on it or flipping switches and turning dials on the blasted thing, it still refused to work.

"Sammy!" he called out, glancing behind him and nearly jumping out of his skin when he saw his brother sitting at the table, laptop planted in its usual spot in front of him. Sam's eyes were focused on the screen, and only moved when Dean called his name a second time.

"What?" Sam asked, brow lowered, eyes narrowed.

Dean blinked at him, a questioning look set upon his visage. "Did you know the heater was broken?" he asked, pointing to the machine.

Sam stared at him, stony look turning his lips downward into a frown. "Yeah. And?"

"Aren't you cold? It's freezing in here," Dean stated, coming to stand next to his oblivious brother.

"It's only freezing in here because you're pathetic and can't handle the cold," Sam spat, scooting the chair out and away from the table and standing up, gaze hardening as he glared down at his older brother.

Dean stared at his brother, a twinge of pain hitting him square in his chest. "What?" he asked, taken aback by Sam's words.

"You heard me," Sam said, stepping forward, quickly closing the gap in between them. Dean couldn't help but back away, trying to make it as unnoticeable as possible. "Oh wait, that's right, you can't. I _forgot_."

Even though Dean couldn't hear the words his brother was speaking, he could surely understand them and the venom that was laced within them. "Sammy, I-"

He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, one of Sam's large hands coming to shove him into the nearest wall. Dean felt all the air escape his lungs and the way his body was having a hard time taking anymore in to replace what he had lost. He gasped and gasped, but could barely breathe in anything.

"You've always been weak, Dean. Ever since we were kids. And I can't do it anymore! I'm sick and tired of taking care of your ass!" Sam shouted, slamming Dean into the wall again, this time harder than before.

"Sammy-"

"Don't '_Sammy_' me! I'm sick of it! Oh, poor Dean can't hear anymore! Oh, poor Dean, too damned stupid to understand sign language! You're a pathetic excuse for a hunter, Dean! And an even more pathetic excuse for a brother!" The cords in Sam's neck were bulging now, his face reddening in anger.

He slammed Dean up against the wall again, this time the older hunter's head connecting with the wood. "Aw, did that hurt?" Sam taunted, fury in his eyes. He shoved Dean again, this time as hard as he could, and Dean couldn't help but see white afterward, stars dancing in his eyes.

"Sam," he whispered, voice strained and hoarse. "Sammy, please-"

His pleas were cut off as he felt a fist connect with his right cheek, Sam's strong-knuckled punch knocking him to the threadbare carpet. The next thing he knew, Sam's boots were connecting with his ribs, and even though he tried to hold it back, a cry escaped his lips. It wasn't long before he felt it again, another hard kick to his stomach.

He felt something warm coating his lips, but before he had enough time to register that it was blood, Sam kicked him again and that time, Dean was positive he felt something break inside of him. After a few moments of the same treatment, it stopped, just as abruptly as it started. He felt one of Sam's hands fist a patch of his short hair and pull his head upwards, neck straining at the force. Reluctantly, he cracked one eye open.

And what he saw froze him to the bone.

Sam's eyes were black.

Demon-possessed black.

"Miss me?" Not-Sam asked, devious grin turning up the corners of his lips. "I thought I told you before, _try as you might, you'd never get rid of me_. You should've listened."

The panic that seared into Dean's chest was instant—his heart beat becoming erratic and fast—too fast.

"Wait, I'm going to make this easy on myself," Not-Sam stated before laying a single finger on Dean's forehead. The effect was instantaneous—he could hear again.

And the noises—the sound of the faucet in the bathroom dripping, a train barreling over tracks somewhere in the distance, a car horn blaring outside their room—he could hear them all, and his ears ached at the sounds.

He clenched his jaw and swallowed thickly, trying desperately to disguise the pain, but when he saw the grin widen on not-Sam, he knew there was no hiding anything from that monster.

In the back of his mind, he wondered, was he truly so terrible that he deserved this?

"Of course, you do, Dean," and when the demon spoke, its voice thundered in Dean's ears and he tried in vain to cover them only to have his hands slammed back down to the floor. "You deserve all of the pain that you've suffered through all these years. And you deserve all the pain I'm going to give you in the coming as well." Not-Sam giggled at his own words, tightening the grip he had on Dean's hair. "Get up," it ordered, strong fingers threatening to pull the light brown locks out right from his scalp.

Dean let out a breath and closed his eyes tight, not wanting to believe that this was happening.

_First Dad and now Sammy? _

_No..._

"I said get up, Dean. _Now_," it commanded, making its grip even tighter.

Dean's jaw clenched visibly underneath his skin and he placed both hands on the carpet, arms shaking weakly as he tried to push himself up. He felt his ribs screaming, the pain almost becoming unbearable as he brought his knees up so that he was on all fours. A whimper escaped his lips and he immediately bit his bottom lip, ashamed at the showcase of weakness on his part.

Without warning, Not-Sam hauled him up, handling him as though he were a mere duffel bag full of clothes rather than a human being. Dean's head swam at the dizziness that had snaked its way into his brain. He stumbled, hand catching onto Not-Sam's arm so that he wouldn't fall.

"So, Deano, when's the last time you actually ate something, huh?" the brunette asked, the grin back on its freshly licked lips.

Dean kept silent, unfocused gaze falling to the floor where he silently decided he'd rather be instead of upright as he now was, and about to fall over. Nausea flared in his gut, the taste of bile stretching across his tongue.

"That long, huh?" the demon inquired with a dry laugh, holding him up effortlessly with one arm. "How's that working for you? Depriving yourself of food and just living off of beer and whatever other alcohol you can conjure up? Apparently not too well," Not-Sam muttered with a chuckle, throwing Dean down onto the motel chair he'd previously been sitting on.

"What do you want with me?" Dean asked breathlessly, head hanging in shame and pain. He swallowed back the sick that was starting to move up his throat and wondered how much longer he could keep it down. Probably not much longer. God, his head was _pounding_...

"Well," Not-Sam started, pulling up the other chair and sitting on it with the back-end facing forwards, "Since I was in the neighborhood, I figured I'd stop by and have a little fun," the demon said, lips quirking upwards devilishly.

"That right?" Dean asked, voice barely above a whisper as he tried to stifle a cough, only to have it hit him full force, barreling out of his chest and throat and past his lips.

"You don't sound too good there, Deano? Everything alright?" Not-Sam asked, sarcasm dripping from his tone as he reached over, large hand pounding on his back.

Dean lurched forward at the touch, another cough—this one deeper than before—emanating from his lungs. It didn't help that he heard something else crack when the demon touched him.

"Oops, didn't mean to break that one too. God, how weak are you now, Dean?" Not-Sam paused, bringing a finger to his own chin and tapping it lightly. "Hmm, you know what? I think I need to _see_ how weak you are. How 'bout we just take this off?" he said and immediately began to pull Dean's hoodie and shirts off.

White and black and blue spots danced before Dean's eyes as pain erupted throughout his ribs, the jarring from the demon nearly ripping his clothes off making his ability to not wretch basically nil. It wasn't long before he was vomiting up on the floor, one pale arm holding his side as started to dry-heave once all the water was out of his system.

"Well, looky what we have here," the demon said, tossing Dean's clothes casually to the floor. "Looks like somebody's been working overtime on their figure."

Dean shivered, the cold air in the room hitting his rail-thin frame abruptly. He forced his eyes not to glance down at his stomach. He hated his damned stomach.

"My, my, my, it's only been three months, and damned if you haven't done a number on yourself. So many new scars," Not-Sam said, long fingers tracing the various markings on Dean's flesh. "This one's still my favorite though," he grinned, running his fingertips down the jagged cross in the middle of Dean's chest. "Ironic, isn't it? A demon carving a cross onto a human's body. One that doesn't even believe in God. Ha, that's hilarious!" Not-Sam laughed and Dean's eyes went from half-lidded to wide, the scar beginning to burn.

"Finally got you're attention! Thought I was beginning to lose you there." The demon paused and stared at him, and Dean hated it—hated the way it was using his brother's body, hated the way it was looking through his eyes and staring at him.

He moved without thinking, lunging for his father's journal. His fingertips brushed against the leather only to be stopped almost instantly, a strong hand clamping down on his wrist. A cry escaped his lips as he felt the bones grind together, and almost started to wretch again when he heard them crack and break.

"You just don't listen, do you, Dean?" Not-Sam asked, voice low and eyes full of fury and hate. "You might have banished me once," he said, pausing only to squeeze harder, "but it will not—_not_ happen again. Do you understand me?" the demon ground out, voice impossibly deeper.

A whimper shot out passed Dean's lips, and though he hated showing any sign of weakness, the pain that was flaring through his wrist made the small sound seem justifiable.

To himself anyway.

"Aw, this is all I have to do to get that pretty little sound out of you?" It laughed, making Sam's eyes gleam. "Well, I think we're onto something here." It stood up, Dean's wrist still in its hand as it slammed him back down onto the chair and Dean was pretty positive his tailbone was now broken. He bit his lip at the pain, hard enough to draw blood, but the demon didn't stop. It jerked his injured arm back behind him and grabbed his other as well, even as he struggled—albeit fruitlessly—and tied them behind his back, using one of his t-shirts as a restraint.

"I bet this is a familiar position for you, isn't it?" and it laughed, and Dean hated it more because it was using Sammy's voice and Sammy's vocal chords, and Sam would never laugh at him—

"My God, are you serious?" It stopped laughing, though there was still a surefire grin plastered across not-Sam's lips.

_It's not Sammy. He wouldn't do this. It's not Sammy._

The demon knelt down in front of him, brown bangs hanging in its face. "No, you're absolutely right, Dean. Sammy would never do _this_," and it back-handed Dean, leaving his sunken cheek red and flaring and already blossoming a bruise. "Or _this_." Another white-knuckled punch that easily separated the flesh of his lips, tearing the pink-colored skin in two. "No, your sweet-cheeked little brother would never, _ever_ do anything to hurt you, Deano," it said, the sarcasm once again present in its tone.

Dean saw white again as it grabbed a hold of his right index finger and twisted it, snapping the digit at the knuckle and tearing apart the bones and muscle underneath his skin. He couldn't stop the scream that parted his blood-caked lips, the noise falling listlessly on the demon's ears.

Not-Sam clapped at the sound, toothy grin lighting up his face. "Familial pain is the worst kind of pain, isn't it, Dean?" and the grin was gone, replaced with a dangerous expression in its wake. "It _hurts_-" the demon paused while it grabbed another fist-full of Dean's closely cropped hair in its hand, "when someone you love and you think loves you back hurts you and doesn't give a damn about you, doesn't it?" It didn't wait for an answer, just titled its head to the side and leaned in closer towards the injured hunter. "Your daddy don't love you, as you can tell. Hell, the minute he had the chance, he hurried up and jumped town. Left your sorry ass in a hotel because he just couldn't stand to look at you another second. The thought of you _repulsed_ him-"

"Shut up," Dean murmured in a whisper-thin voice.

"-And every time he saw your face, he wanted to puke. You disgusted him. Knew you were nothing but damaged goods, and there was no way in hell he could drag your sorry ass along with him anymore-"

"Shut up," Dean repeated, voice even smaller than before.

"-And that car that you love with all your pathetic heart? He didn't leave it for you because he felt guilty and wanted you to have it because it just meant so damned much to you...No, he left it because he couldn't stand the stench of your sorry ass in there anymore. Couldn't stand knowing that your lazy ass had basically put an indent in the passenger seat of _his _prized possession. He couldn't drive it anymore because it just made him think of you and believe me, you're something he wants to _forget_. You think he's going around telling people about his two wonderful sons? Nope, as far as he's concerned, he's only got one, and it ain't you, sweetheart."

"Fuck. Off." He had put all his hate into those two words, and if his voice wouldn't have broke on the last one, he was sure it would have made a difference. But it hadn't. Instead, the demon kept on going, not even giving his voice a second thought.

"Then there's Sammy. Good ol' apple pie, Sammy. The little brother that had to learn sign language first because God knows-" he said, knocking on Dean's skull with a fisted hand, making the poor hunter's headache pulse even more, "you were too damned stupid to be able to do it yourself. Little Sammy who you were supposed to look after because daddy was too busy going after the thing that killed your _mama_-" The word made Dean wince, and that gesture alone only made things worse. "-You would think that if good ol' Sammy really cared about you, he would've stuck around instead of running straight off to college the moment he had the chance. You know, he carried around that acceptance letter for six whole months. That's right, the little brother who you thought told you everything, didn't tell you that, huh? That's because he wanted to get as far away as possible from you too, Deano. He was sick and tired of caring for his poor deaf brother. All those times he stood up for you when someone called you names or made fun of you-" The demon raised its hand to the side of its mouth as though it were telling a secret, and even whispered its next words. "_He hated you for it_."

Dean shook his head, closing his eyes so tight that red enveloped his vision. He was trying so hard, so damned hard not to cry, but the tears were there, hidden just under his eyelids. He was starting to shake too, cold, harsh air continuously ghosting over his pale skin.

"So predictable, aren't you?" the demon spat, this time sounding annoyed. "What is it with you and that macho act? You try to pretend you're such a badass and so tough, but we both know the truth. You're nothing but a pathetic little pussy who can't do shit right. And the worst part is you try so hard, but you still fail, over and over again. Doesn't that get a little old? Continuously setting yourself up for failure? Because that's basically all that you are. I mean, honestly, you knew you couldn't successfully find your dear ol' dad all on your own, so you had to go lug this guy," he said, pointing to his chest, "to come and help you find him. You took him away from everything that _he_ wanted, not even giving a damn that you were being so selfish. Your brother lost everything because of you, Dean. Lost that chance to become a lawyer and make something of himself. Lost that beautiful girl. All because you were too damned afraid to make a go at on your own. But you did do the right thing, because if you would've tried it on your own, you would've wound up getting your useless self killed anyway. Let's face it, you can't do anything right."

Dean couldn't stop the tears from falling, or the sudden pain that seared up his left arm. He forced his eyes open, his stomach roiling at the sight of the demon running one of his knives down his bicep all the way to the crook of his arm. Blood rose to the surface instantly, gushing past his broken skin and riveting down his limb, the crimson color contrasting greatly with his snow-white colored flesh.

"Would you look at that? You _are_ still alive!" Not-Sam said in a mock tone, fake shock raising his brow, knife gleaming dangerously in his hand as blood dripped off of it.

"Leave me alone." The words were so light, so quiet that the demon actually gave pause to the next patch of skin he was about to mutilate on Dean's uncovered body. It bent down, coming to rest on its haunches with Sam's hands upon its cheeks as it stared up at the battered hunter. Slowly, it reached out, running a thumb down Dean's cheek, wiping away at a fresh tear. Dean kept ever still. "My, my, how the times have changed," it murmured softly, off-handedly. "Is poor Dean broken?"

Dean took in a deep breath. His whole body hurt. His ribs ached—hell, burned from being cracked and broken. The headache that started as a steady, pulsing thrum was now a full twelve-piece drum kit pounding away at his brain. He was pretty positive his back was bruised from his ass on up due to repeatedly being slammed into the walls and floor. And he was past the point of freezing now. He was starting to get hot, sweat beginning to bead upon his skin.

Even through all of the pain, he shook his head, not willing to admit defeat.

"Well, let's see if I can help with that," Not-Sam claimed, laying a hand on Dean's forehead. Suddenly, his vision went dark, and panic settled into his chest.

"What did you do to me?" Dean ground out, his heart pounding in his chest.

"I'm breaking you, Dean," the demon stated matter-of-factly. "Everyone has a point, and I thought I'd reached yours, but apparently I was wrong. So, I decided to try something new. How's it feel?" And of course it's voice was coming from every direction so Dean didn't have a damned clue as to where it was going to strike next. With new found strength, he tugged at his restraints, teeth grinding against one another as he struggled.

"Just think, if I decide to keep you alive, you'll have to relearn how to do everything all over again. Except now, you won't be able to drive, won't be able to do much but sit your ass in that passenger seat and cry about not being able to see anymore. Or maybe..."

"Don't touch me!" Dean shouted, his voice cracking on the last word. Before he could say anymore, the world went silent, and he couldn't hear again. He immediately went stock still, any strength he had lost just like two of his senses. He tried desperately to steady his breathing, his heart—he could still feel it dammit—beating away in his chest like there was no tomorrow, and he wondered, as the knife slashed across his chest and then across his stomach, if there actually might not be.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Sam sat bolt upright, a gasp escaping his lips as remnants of the dream faded from his eyes.

_Jess..._

He ran a hand through his hair and stilled. The cold temperature of the room hit him suddenly, and he couldn't help but shiver. He scrubbed his hands down his arms in an attempt to warm himself, but it had no real effect. Before he could get out of the bed to check the heater, the sound of wheezing mixed with coughing met his ears.

His gaze immediately shot to Dean whose eyes were clenched tight in pain, sweat covering every inch of visible skin.

"Shit," the word escaped Sam's lips abruptly as he hurriedly shoved the covers off of himself and got up, rushing over to Dean's bed. "Dean, Dean, wake up," he said, laying a hand on his brother's drenched forehead and another on his cheek. He was burning up, the skin much too warm for anything less than a high-grade fever.

"S'mmy, please, no. Please. Please, S'mmy," Dean murmured, voice so hoarse Sam could barely understand him.

"It's alright, Dean. Everything's going to be okay," Sam said, more to himself than anything. "I'm gonna get something to cool you down."

_Shit!_

The brunette grabbed the standard motel ice bucket and went out of the room, not even bothering to put his shoes on. The air was cold and frigid, stinging his face and toes as he made his way to the ice machine. After retrieving the ice, he jogged back to the room, careful not to drop any of the bucket's contents. Grabbing a towel from the bathroom, he went back to Dean's side, wrapping numerous cubes of ice up and laying it on his brother's forehead.

Sam was no doctor, but he was pretty positive that if he didn't get the damned fever down, and soon, Dean was going to be in worse shape than he already was—and that was clearly saying something.

Recalling the faint memory of a thermometer located at the bottom of their secondary first aid kit, Sam dug through the bottom of Dean's duffel, thankful when he finally found it. He uncapped the device and prayed he could get Dean to shut up long enough to put the tool under his tongue. Using the best soothing voice he had (and trying his hardest not to sound like the panic-stricken little brother that he was), he inserted the thermometer into his brother's mouth, inwardly thankful that it was staying under his tongue. He watched as the digital numbers climbed fast, quickly surpassing 100ºF easily. Finally, it beeped.

104.5ºF.

Sam could feel his hands start to shake as he took in the height of the numbers. His brother's brain was going to fry if he didn't think of something fast, and the only thing he could think about was the last time Dean's temperature had been that high, and how horrible it was.

"_Dean! Dean! Wake up! Please wake up! Dean!" Five-year old Sammy wailed, shaking his older brother's limp shoulder. "Dean! Please, Dean! Please!" he cried, over and over again, but his brother still wasn't moving. The nine year old was just laying there, covered in sweat and skin burning so hot that Sam thought maybe there was some invisible fire burning his brother, and he just couldn't see it. But he knew that kind of thing wasn't possible, was it?_

_The small brunette shoved his older brother's body again, fat tears starting to roll down his cheeks at Dean's unresponsiveness. "Dean, this isn't fun anymore! Stop! Please?" Sammy begged, cheeks red from crying. "Dean?" he shoved him again, though not as hard as he usually did when they wrestled. _

_When he saw that his brother still wasn't moving, the tears started to fall again, faster than before. He didn't want to lose Dean. It was bad enough they didn't have a mommy like all the other kids, but if he were to lose Dean? Sammy didn't want to imagine his brother not being there. He shook his head at the thought, brown bangs shuffling against his forehead as he tried to figure out what to do. _

"_Whenever something's bad, Dean calls Daddy. So that's what I should do. Dean," Sammy said, hurriedly wiping his tear streaks away with the back of his sleeve, "I'm gonna call Daddy, and he'll know what to do. So I'll be right back, okay?" The little boy nodded to himself and quickly got up from the floor and ran to the phone. He hit the redial button, because he knew that their dad was the last (and only) person Dean had called. _

_He waited and waited, the phone continuing to ring, but no answer ever coming. After he let it ring over twenty times, he hung up and tried again. After trying two more times without avail, Sammy hung up the phone and ran back over to his brother. "Dean, Daddy's not picking up! Don't die on me, Dean, please? Please don't! Okay?" The tears were back and quickly trailing down the five-year old's cheeks, promptly blurring his vision. He started to hiccup, and he could feel a sob ready to burst from his lips when Dean mumbled, "'S okay, Sammy. 'S okay." _

Sam shook his head, his brother's words echoing in his head.

_'S okay, Sammy. 'S okay._

Feeling water creep upon his eyes, Sam dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, blocking the tears before they could fall.

He really hated their father.

He couldn't help but wonder if the word hate was too generous of a term.

"Okay, you can do this. Fever reducer first. And water. And more ice. More ice," he muttered to himself, grabbing the extra strength Tylenol from the first aid kit and a glass of water from the bathroom. He then reset the cloth on Dean's forehead, the ice already having melted into the white cotton material. "Dean, you gotta swallow these pills for me, okay?" he said softly, gently lifting his brother's head from the pillow and holding it up as he lifted the glass to his lips.

Dean moaned beneath him, sweat and what looked like tears streaming down his face.

"Just two little pills and some water," Sam tried again, carefully opening his brother's mouth and slipping the pills inside and on his tongue. He titled the glass up once more, and slowly, Dean took a drink and swallowed. He began to cough immediately after, but luckily, the water and pills didn't fly back out.

Sam sighed and stood up, thankful that at least that part was out of the way. The more he actually looked at his brother, the more worried he got.

Dean was pale, looking more like one of the supernatural creatures they hunted than a human. His skin was wet and clammy, and his eyes were shut tight, as though he were in pain. Every time he breathed, he wheezed, the sound scaring Sam more than he'd like to believe. And if he wasn't wheezing, he was coughing, a deep, chest-wracking cough that made his whole body jerk violently. As the covers slid further down his torso, Sam couldn't help but see the bones that stretched over his skin. Rib after rib, Sam's eyes traveled downward, tears forming in them once more. With each intake of breath, Sam could see Dean's sternum and breastbone—could hear the phlegm rattling around in his chest.

He looked worse than Sam could ever remember, and that thought frightened him more than anything.

Sam clenched his jaw, remembering all the times Dean had taken care of him before—hell, he was still taking care of him, and probably would until they were old and gray.

If they both made it that long.

Sam shook the thought away. All he knew it that Dean was going to be okay, because dammit, he said he was, and that was enough for Sam.

It had to be.

Once his brother was better, they were going to find their father, and Sam knew that he probably was going to kill the man.

Glancing at the map of scars that covered Dean's body, Sam couldn't help but feel the anger surge forth in his blood stream again, and even though Dean hadn't given him specific details of their time apart (because God knew Dean was the king of being vague), Sam could imagine.

And from the looks of things, it must have been hell.

He couldn't wait to return the favor.

No matter the cost.

**A/N : My apologies for taking so long to post this. MASSIVE THANKS to those of you who have stuck with me : HPSmallCharm29, BethanJonesSPN1996, babyreaper, d, dandy44, Glades of Grey, kissacazador, CrazyDreamin, renniespice, Elledille, and the rest of you who've faved or left reviews before. THANK YOU all so, so much, and I hope this chapter sufficed. **


	8. Varúð

**The Illusionist II**

**Chapter 8 :**** Var****úð**

**Warning : Torture, abuse**

He had never been tortured before. Sure, he'd had his fair share of being ruffed up and beaten; that went with the territory. Hell, if there were an application for hunters, getting your ass kicked would be under the list of every day job functions, but this wasn't just getting his ass kicked. No, this went far beyond that.

Slice after slice, nick after nick—he could feel the knife slicing through his skin as though it were mere paper instead of flesh. And he knew—he knew by now that he had to have been screaming. His throat felt raw, sore; and he could only guess that it was gone now, just another thing lost to him.

He'd thought that being deaf was hell, but he'd coped. He'd done the best he could, made do with the other senses that he'd had. But this—to not be able to see or hear—it was unbearable. To live and breath total and inescapable darkness—if he was left like this...

Dean was covered in sweat. He could feel it, cool against his too-hot skin, sliding down off his body and splattering to the floor. And he knew that his blood was doing the same thing too. He'd lost count of how many open wounds there were now littering his skin. The frigid air in the room chilled them, making the pain worse than it already was.

His jaw hurt from clenching down on it too much and too hard, and the skin was rubbed raw on his wrists from where he had struggled against his binds. It was getting harder and harder for him to catch his breath as well, air not wanting to go in, only come out. He was beyond exhausted, and wondered how long he was going to last when a voice cut through his head.

"_Dean! Dean! Please wake up! Dean! Please!"_

He knew that voice.

It was the last one he actually had heard.

Ever.

Before the demon anyway.

"S'mmy," the name escaped through his bleeding and broken lips, and the moment he could feel it clamber out of his throat, the cuts began to get deeper and longer and more erratic. He grimaced, eyes clenched so tight that it actually hurt.

One against the back of his neck, plunging more than just a millimeter under his skin. Another, right on the inside of his left arm where his bicep met his forearm and the veins bulged—and it didn't take long for the crimson warmth to spread against his flesh, trickling down his wrist to his fingers, then finally dropping to the floor.

He bit down on his bottom lip and tried—tried his damnedest not to scream, but his lips parted anyway, giving way to something he was thankful he couldn't hear.

"_Dean, I'm gonna go call Daddy! I'll be right back, okay?"_

"Please," Dean mouthed, fully knowing that if he attempted to speak, nothing would probably come out. But it honestly didn't matter if he said something or not, somehow the damned demon knew exactly what he was thinking, so talking was a fruitless effort anyway. "S'mmy, please." More silent words, more pain.

The knife ran over each knuckle of his hands and fingers, tearing new and reopening old wounds. He gasped as the blade dug in on his pinky finger of his left hand, plunging so deep it hit bone. His whole body jerked at the pain, blood beginning to seep from the cut.

He started to cough—painful, chest-wracking coughs—and that's when he felt something wet come up his throat and purge itself from his body. Panic hit him at that moment, the unknown substance making him wonder if it was blood or something of a less frightening origin.

The pain stopped for a moment, and everything was still. He breathed in and felt something rattle in his chest cavity and immediately began to cough again, more of the unknown body fluid expelling itself from his person.

"_Don't die on me, Dean, please? Please don't! Okay?"_

"S'okay, S'mmy. S'okay," he muttered, an image vaguely flashing through his mind. It appeared to be in black and white, and he thought the sudden recollection to be strange, but was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

He could see his nine-year old self laying on the floor, sweating profusely and looking deathly pale. And there hovering above him with tears in his eyes was Sammy—little _IloveyouDeanalways_ Sammy—holding his hand and looking so scared and on the verge of hyperventilating.

The picture was extricated from his mind as he felt the skin on his stomach begin to burn. He could feel the heat growing warmer and warmer and it wasn't long before the distinct stench of flesh burning reached his nose. He bucked and jerked his body, but the heat stayed, singeing the fine hairs of his abdomen and peeling away his skin.

He longed to see the image again, gasping for air as he closed his eyes tight, trying to ignore the pain that was now becoming apart of him. He felt tears pushing past his clenched eyelids, and leaking down his drawn face. They became a steady stream, sliding along his too-prominent cheek bones and dwindling to the tiled-floor below.

"_Dean, why don't we have a normal mommy like all the other kids?"_

A different picture this time.

Dean could see himself—his nine-year old self—sitting on one of the twin beds in the motel room, dog-eared comic book in hand as Sammy jumped onto the mattress beside him.

"_What? What are you talking about, squirt?" _he asked nonchalantly, the familiar feeling of dread pooling in his stomach. He had known for awhile that the question was bound to pop up, especially since Sam had started kindergarten. Dean had seen the look of sadness on his little brother's face every time he came to pick him up—while all the other kids mothers were there instead. He hated the fact that Sam knew they were different, that his little brother had to feel that way.

"_De-e-an," _Sam purposely stretched out his name, obviously annoyed. _"Don't avoid the subject. I don't like it when you do that."_

Dean let the book slide from his fingers onto his lap and rolled his eyes, though he could feel the pain and the sinking feeling in his chest. _"What are you, five or fifty?" _he joked, still unable to look in his baby brother's eyes.

"_You're still doing it," _Sam replied, staring at him expectantly.

Dean sighed and finally set the comic book aside on the nightstand. Steeling himself, he turned to face Sammy, nothing but a mask of seriousness now on his visage. _"Sammy, you know that something bad happened when we were little. And it took Mom away from us. And just because we don't have a mom like all your little friends, doesn't mean we're any different from them. I mean, we are, but in a good way." _He paused and glanced down at the younger brunette, a questioning look still in his eyes. He sighed again and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. _"Look, Sammy, and this is the only time I'll say it, so listen carefully. Mom loved you—she loved you very much."_ At these words, he could see his little brother's eyes start to glimmer and grow watery. That alone made it hard as hell to control his voice from shaking, because as much as he kidded and joked, he hated to see Sammy cry. _"I still remember right after you were born, and Dad took me into the room to let me see you. And Mom was lying there, holding you, and she looked up at Dad and me, and she said—she said, 'He's perfect. Meet your new little brother, Dean.' And there you were, big blue eyes taking in all that you could, and she just smiled. I don't think I'd ever seen her so happy.'_

Dean had hardly finished his last sentence when Sam jumped onto his lap and threw his skinny little arms around his neck. Dean slowly hugged him back, choking down the lump in his throat when he felt the back of his shirt growing wet. _"I love you, Dean."_

"_Love you too, kiddo."_

The memory dissolved, leaving him with nothing but an ache in his chest, and his blood on the floor.

"Isn't that sweet?"

Dean barely moved when he heard the voice. He knew whose it was, but didn't have the energy to open his eyes.

He wondered for a moment, if he could actually hear, or if the demon had just managed to speak to him in his mind. He took a deep breath and tried to listen for other telling noises such as the sound of air rushing out of his lungs, or the faucet endlessly dripping in the bathroom sink—but he heard nothing else.

Just that voice.

The voice of his little brother who was still possessed by a demon.

"You can dredge those things up all you want, Deano, but we both know that little Sammy doesn't exist anymore. He's long gone. Has been for quite awhile. And don't pretend like you didn't notice either. You remember when it all started. When he stopped being the cute little tyke that looked up to you and wanted to be like you and do everything you did. When he decided to keep secrets from you, and avoid you like the trash that you are. You remember, don't you, Deano? How he started to shy away from you, because we both know how much he hated it. Hated having to deal with having such an idiot for a brother. He resented you—resented the fact that you were handicapped and unable to hear a damned thing he said. Do you know how much that frustrated him?" The demon laughed, something dark and undeniably cold. "You remember the time he told you he hated you, don't you, Dean? Of course you do..."

Another vision unwound before him. He was twenty and Sam was sixteen. And he wasn't _Sammy_ anymore—he was _Sam, thank you very much. _Dean and their father had gotten back from a hunt a few days before, and needless to say, he was exhausted and roughed up at that. Bruises covered the expanse of his throat and face, the restless spirit they had hunted taking an exceptional liking to Dean and his pale, freckled skin. He'd also managed to twist his ankle—no big deal, except for having to walk and all. The hunt had pretty much drained him of any energy he had, making the chores John expected him to do all the more trying.

Of course, his father had already found somewhere else to go, having gotten a lead on another hunt the very next day they had returned so it was just Sam and him. And Sam had decided, apparently, that arguing was the best way to pass the time.

"_I need you to help me for a second, Sammy," _Dean muttered, limping into the living room area of the apartment they were currently renting. It was a tiny thing, only two bedrooms which meant they had to share a room, something that was becoming increasingly harder now that Sam wanted and _expected_ to have his privacy. Half the time, Dean found himself lying on the threadbare couch just to appease the kid. He rolled his eyes when his little brother didn't look up from the textbook he had his head buried in. _"Sammy?" _he tried again, but Sam still refused to even so much as throw a glance his way. He forced himself to walk in front of the couch and shake his brother's shoulder. He knew he should've known better, as touchy as the brat was being nowadays, but he had ignored the voice in his head that told him it wouldn't be wise to ask the kid anything let alone touch him. The sixteen-year old instantly jerked away from his touch, a frown pulling down the corners of his lips. He muttered something, but as to what that was, Dean had no clue.

"_Sammy, I said I need your help so c'mon." _

The reaction to his words was immediate that time. _"My name isn't Sammy, it's Sam, and I'm busy." _

Dean could see the anger—hell he could feel it radiating off of the teen—but he persisted, though retreated to sign language instead of his voice. It was a habit he couldn't break.

Sam didn't even look up, but Dean knew that he could see him out the corner of his eye, see the shadow of Dean's fingers fall across the pages of his book. His brother continued to feign ignorance though, choosing to continue to do his homework instead of even sparing Dean a glance. After realizing that he still wasn't getting through to the teen, he decided that being forceful might be the only way to go.

"_Up!"_ Dean ordered, hand now gripping the hood of Sam's shirt.

The teen immediately slapped his hand away, blue eyes tearing themselves away from the textbook and boring into his. _"Don't touch me!"_ Sam shouted, face reddening immediately.

Dean backed away a half step, brow frowning in concern. _"What's wrong with you?" _he asked with his hands, green eyes gleaming sadly.

"_What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me?" _Sam repeated furiously, standing up and now they were eye to eye. _"Why do you always do this? Why do you always let him let you get hurt?" _Sam exclaimed, waving his hands angrily. _"He always comes back fine, and you always come back like this!" _he shouted, gesturing towards Dean's bruises. _"Does he just throw you in front of him to protect himself? Or does he just use you as bait?"_

All Dean could do was stare, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, disbelief clearly written all over his face. It didn't take long for him to become defensive. _"He doesn't do that,"_ the twenty-year old said, fingers moving as he shook his head. _"He gets injured too. He's just better at hiding it!" _and now his movements were sharp and fast, and drawing nothing but Sam's ire.

"_That's bullshit and you know it!" _Sam yelled, folding his arms in front of him, one on top of the other and raising his right index and pinkie fingers to form the shape of a bull's horns, all the while having his left hand push out with his fingers waggling. He then rocked his arms for emphasis.

Dean's brow furrowed. _"Shut up, Sammy!" _he shouted with his hands, bringing one hand up (palm facing himself) in front of his chest, fingers straight with his thumb tucked in, then bringing his other hand up in a sweeping motion, fingertips of both hands connecting. Then, instead of raising his index finger in an upwards motion, he poked his little brother in the chest with it.

"_Why are you defending him? Huh? Tell me!" _and the teen's face was blazing red now, and right in his older brother's, fists clenched at his sides.

"_You're going to shut up. Then, you're going to go outside and do laps. End of discussion," _Dean signed, mouth drawn and eyes looking far too old and weary for someone his age.

Sam immediately shook his head, jaw clenched tight. There were tears in his eyes now, fat and attempting to run down his cheeks if he blinked. Sam held up his right pinkie finger, then brought both hands up and tucked his middle finger beneath his thumb to form and 'O' shape. He then made a flicking motion with them and pointed at Dean.

_I hate you._

Dean saw one tear fall before the sixteen-year old turned around and stomped off to their bedroom. He could practically feel the vibration of the door slamming through the floorboards.

The image evaporated, all Dean could feel was pain. Excruciating, heart-piercing pain. It ran up and down his spine, traveling through his limbs, making every part of him ache.

That was a memory he had pushed to the very depths of his mind. After it had happened, he'd tried his damnedest to forget about it, and act as though it had never happened. Sam _had_ apologized afterward, but things weren't the same. And they hadn't been.

The demon was right.

"Aren't I always? You see, here's the thing. You hunters and those that belittle us—you call us liars, deceivers, but in all reality, we're truth tellers. We show you the things that you can't stand to believe because you're too afraid to see what's really right there in front of you. I don't lie, Deano. Don't you realize that?" It's voice was soft now. Gentle.

Dean could feel the warm tears streaming down his cheeks again, faster than before. He bit down on his bottom lip so hard he drew blood, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Hell, what part of him wasn't bleeding out right now?

"Haven't you ever considered the thought that maybe—just maybe—Sammy-boy would be better off without you? I mean, after all, you know what you put your father through..."

Dean opened his eyes at those words, and instead of seeing darkness like he had been for however long the demon had decided to take away his sight, he was now staring at his father's angry face in the driver's seat of the Impala. The breath that had been in his lungs slowly drained out through his lips, and he watched as his father's hands tightly gripped the steering wheel, his grasp white-knuckled and firm.

Furious.

He then saw himself, wounded and bleeding in the passenger's seat, though his injuries hadn't been from anything they'd hunted. No, they were from his father.

His right eye was surrounded by a ring of purples and yellows, his cheekbone showcasing the same colorful pattern as well. Two of his ribs were broken or fractured—he couldn't quite remember, and his wrist sprained from being twisted and squeezed until it too was covered in a circlet of bruises.

His breathing was off—short, little quick gasps—and of course, the sound was apparently annoying John to no end. He could see the way his father's jaw was clenched, his brow drawn into an angered frown. And the way the pallor of his face was slowly darkening into that deep, beet red as it did every time he was angry or upset.

The man's lips were moving too, but Dean didn't have quite the energy to pay attention to what was being said. He was exhausted—that bone-deep exhaustion that no matter how tired you are, you still can't sleep. And he _was_ trying to too, because he knew that if he could at least sleep, his breathing would be slower and not as aggravating.

But dreams just wouldn't come to claim his consciousness. Instead, he was feeling every single bump and rock that they ran over, the vibrations running up through the car and right through his worn body.

The last bump had been a helluva jarring one too, and the impact had made him suck in too much air too fast, the action nearly causing him to choke. And the sound of him coughing—he knew—hadn't made matters better at all.

It had only made them worse.

As it was with just about everything that he did.

It didn't help that the coughing made his ribs feel like they were on fire and splitting apart. Bone splinter by bone splinter, pulling away from each other and shattering as though they were pieces of fiberglass.

The coughing had finally subsided, but John's anger hadn't.

It wasn't long before Dean could feel the car shifting and pulling over to the side of the road, and all he could think of was _please, no, not again, I'm sorry._

His closed eyes jolted open when he felt his father's hand encircle his good wrist (the one he'd been keeping over the bad one, nursing it in his own stealthy way), and he knew that there was fear in his eyes as he turned to look at his father, but he couldn't help it.

The possibility that the man could kill him someday wasn't a stretch, no matter how many times he told himself it wouldn't happen.

Accidents happened all the time.

Especially in his case; practically every day.

"_Shut up. Do you understand me?" _John asked, gripping his jaw painfully and leaving more bruises behind. Dean nodded and did all he could to calm his pounding heart. _"One more sound..." _Dean nodded again in understanding, and was thankful when he felt his father's grasp lessen before disappearing all together.

Dean quickly turned his head away to hide the shame that was now plastered across his visage, and then a voice cut through his mind. It was his father's, and his eyes widened at the words.

"_Why couldn't it have been you instead of your mother?"_

The motel room came crashing back around him, and this time, Dean's vision was restored. He could see the demon, standing there with a neutral expression on its face, droplets of his blood littering its clothing—_Sammy's clothing._

All Dean could do was stare, dazed look imprinted into his eyes.

"So, Deano, do you really want Sammy to feel that way about you too?" It knelt down before him on its haunches, the bloodied knife dangling from its left hand as it gently patted Dean's knee.

Dean shook his head slowly, feeling irreparably numb.

The pain that he had felt—the excruciatingly, soul-piercingly, mind-bending pain—was gone.

And all that was left over was numbness. It wasn't calming, it wasn't comforting—it just _was_.

"I'll make a deal with you, Deano. I'm gonna hand over this knife to you once I undo your binds, and when I do, you're gonna carve four neat little marks right there," Not-Sam said, smiling as he pointed to Dean's wrists. "And then, you and me are gonna sit here and watch as you bleed out all over this floor, and put yourself out of this miserable act that you call life. Deal?"

Dean let his gaze fall on the still-gleaming weapon, sharp and stained red. He let it linger there for a few minutes before he finally nodded, swallowing thickly as he did so. A single tear slithered down his cheek as the demon grinned and stood up.

"You know, Deano, I am so glad we had this little talk, and that you're seeing things my way," it stated as it started to undo his restrictions. "It feels good, doesn't it, to finally learn the truth?"

The hunter didn't answer. He just let his arms fall to his sides as they were released, weak and heavy, feeling as though they were made of lead. The chilly air didn't even bother him anymore. In fact, he felt downright hot, like someone had lit a fire in the room, and he wondered, faintly, why that was.

"Oh, come on, Deano, cheer up! Before you know it, this will all be a thing of the past. No more hurting, no more pain, and the best thing about dying is you'll finally be able to actually hear again. Because after all, you'll be residing with me. In hell." The demon was absolutely beaming now, Sam's white teeth baring through his lips.

Dean slowly reached out for the knife and grasped it carefully when the demon placed it in his hand. He looked at it, felt the weight of it, and glanced down at his wrist.

_Now or never._

He took a deep breath, and held the blade to his skin, amazed at how much the color of the metal contrasted with his pale flesh.

"_...Don't die on me, Dean, please? Please don't, okay?..."_

"_...S'okay, Sammy..."_

"_...I love you, Dean..."_

_Sammy?_

"_...Love you too, kiddo..."_

"_...Forever and always?..."_

"_...Forever and always..."_

_Wait..._

"You're not Sammy," he murmured, and this time, he could hear his own voice. And, naturally, that could mean only one thing.

All at once, the pain came rushing back to him, but he ignored it, sidestepping it and lunging straight for the demon. Mustering all the strength he had, he stabbed Not-Sam right in the heart and watched as the demon muttered something indiscernible and then disappeared.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Sam had managed to bite off all his fingernails, working his way all the way down to the quick on every single finger. He was about three minutes away from calling an ambulance when Dean's eyes opened wide, moving back and forth so fast his green orbs appeared to be robotic. Sam immediately leapt to his feet, his body moving before he even realized it.

"Dean?" the name tumbled from his lips as he ran a hand through his brother's sweat-soaked hair. "Dean?" he tried again, moving his face within inches of his brother's when Dean didn't respond.

Finally, their eyes met. "S'mmy?" he managed to croak out, voice sounding hoarse and paper-thin. "R'lly you?"

Sam just stared at him for a moment, taking in his gaunt appearance and green eyes that were still bright with fever (just a lower grade one, thank God). He shook his head and blinked when he realized what his brother had just asked him. He nodded in response, and tried to look more cheerful, but even sick, Dean could still see right through him.

"S'mmy? 'S wrong?" and Sam immediately felt guilty for the concern that was on his older brother's face. After all he'd been through, he shouldn't have been the one asking that question.

"Nothing's wrong, Dean," he said shaking his head. "You just had me scared there for awhile." He was signing before he even realized what he was doing.

"'M okay. Jus' need some water," Dean mumbled, and tried to sit up, only to have Sam's hand fall onto his bony chest. His eyes widened at the touch and his heartbeat began to quicken, but after a moment, he calmed himself. This was the real Sammy—_his _Sammy. Not some bastard demon who thought it would be fun to wear his face for a little while.

_It was just a dream._

_That's all._

Sam hurriedly grabbed a bottle of cold water from the mini-fridge and twisted off the cap, holding the cool liquid up to his brother's parched lips. After Dean received his fill, he put the lid back on and set it down on the nightstand. An eyebrow quirked up as he looked down at his brother. He gently placed a hand on Dean's arm, just to grab his attention. It jerked underneath his touch, the muscles tensing before slowly relaxing.

Dean glanced up, confusion and exhaustion written across his features.

"Why did you ask if it's really me?" Sam inquired, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

Dean shrugged and closed his eyes, lips moving but no sound coming out. Sam wondered for a moment if he was only doing it to shut him out, but his brother's breathing soon evened out, giving him his answer.

"Okay, then," Sam mumbled and sat down on top of his covers. Dean was out of the woods for now; more rest would probably do him good anyway. Sam yawned, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. He hadn't slept in more than thirty-six hours; perhaps now was a good time to sneak a nap in. Just a quick nap and then...

S*P*N*S*P*N

"Sammy!"

He heard his name, but his body felt too heavy to move. He hadn't realized just how exhausted he was.

"Sam!"

His eyes fluttered open, but it still felt hard to move. His arms and legs felt like lead weights, keeping him anchored to the bed.

"Sam, please!"

"What?" he muttered, mouth thick with sleep.

"Look, Sammy-"

"It's not Sammy, it's Sam," he murmured, eyes almost falling closed again until he realized just whose voice he was hearing. He sat bolt upright, and that's when he realized he wasn't in the same room. This—this was somewhere completely different. It was dark and cold—downright frigid.

"Sam, look, I know you're upset with me right now, but please son—"

The brunette quickly jumped up off the bed, blue eyes searching the expanse of the room. It wasn't really any different than any of the other motels they'd been in. Maybe more dirtier and danker than the rest, but other than the peeling wallpaper and missing light bulbs, the room looked like almost every other one they'd had the pleasure of staying in. It didn't take long for him to see his father.

The man was sitting ramrod straight in one of the motel's hardback chairs, face covered in sweat, brown eyes pleading. There was blood smeared across his forehead, and some trickling down the side of his face. He looked..._rough_.

"Sam please-"

The younger hunter could feel the anger welling up inside himself, feel the hate beginning to stream icy cold and piercing through his veins. He shook his head, chocolate-colored locks bristling as his mouth turned downwards into a frown.

"Whatever it is, I don't-"

"Sammy—_Sam._ Please, help me, Sam. _Please._"

"Help _you_? After all the shit you've done? After all the pain that you've inflicted on Dean? Fuck you!"

The man grimaced at the words, trying unsuccessfully to undo his binds. He struggled, but still couldn't get out of them. "Sam, look—if there has ever been one thing I've ever asked you for, it's this. You have to help me. _Now._"

Sam immediately shook his head again, jaw locking tightly underneath his skin. "Help _yourself_."

"It's your broth-"

"I don't _care_. Don't you get that?" the younger hunter spat, shoulders tense, hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Wait, what were you just going to say?"

"Sammy, please-" And his father really did look fearful this time. All Sam could do was stare, disbelief creeping across his features.

"Oh, don't worry about him, Sammy. He'll be _just _fine."

Sam's head jerked in the direction of the newest voice—and this was one he knew all too well.

It was Dean's.

His older brother was leaning in the doorway of the main room, arms folded across his chest, a twisted grin upon his face. Sam woke up the moment he saw his eyes—they were black.

Completely and utterly black.

**A/N- I am so, so sorry for taking so long to post this. Between the heat knocking out my power five times in the past month and some crazy RL shit, I haven't had much time for this. Anyway, I want to thank EACH and EVERY one of you who reviews or favorites or follows this story. THANK YOU ALL so much, including : dandy44, sjoeks, Bethan1996SPN, HPSmallCharm29, Glades of Grey, babyreaper, Wonderful ANON ;D, LoriLovesDestiel, kissacazador, CrazyDreamin, crystallynnerusso, lovesreidforever, Twillightfairy, and every one else. Thank you all again, and I hope this chapter sufficed. :)**


	9. Panic Switch

**The Illusionist Part II **

**Chapter 9 : Panic Switch**

Dean stared at the sandwich as though it were one of the many things they hunted instead of something that was supposed to be edible. Sam had for the most part been force-feeding him broth, soup, and whatever else he could since he'd been sick, and as much as he loved his brother, he didn't care too much for all the extra food that he didn't need.

He swallowed thickly, trying to shove down his nausea at the sight of the turkey that looked like it had just been cut from the bird itself, or the gooey cheese that looked more like burnt plastic than something he was supposed to eat. The lettuce was brown on the edges, and he was sure that if he peeled back the layers that it was probably just as nasty looking on the inside as well.

He carefully pushed the plate away from his breathing space and settled for his cup of coffee instead. He made sure to roll his eyes too, in attempt to let Sam know that he wasn't hungry, and he sure as hell wasn't going to eat that slop that was intended for him. Burnt diner coffee would suit him just fine. Besides, thanks to Sam, he was sure he'd put on weight in the past two weeks, and that was _not_ something that he needed to be doing. He _needed_ to be in fighting shape, not slow and bulky.

"I'm not hungry, Sammy, so don't push it," he mumbled, letting his gaze fall everywhere but on Sam.

The younger of the two, in turn, resorted to pouting and rolling his eyes. Dean figured he was probably sighing too and saying something, but he wouldn't allow himself to look. He knew better. Once he started reading his brother's lips (especially when he was being stubborn or in a mood), he never liked what he saw, and it usually pissed him off.

And then, they'd fight.

"You can pout all you fucking want, but it's not gonna make me any hungrier. And please, don't pull that _if-you-don't-eat-neither-am-I_ crap because in case you forgot, you're diabetic and you _have_ to eat." And with that he let his eyes finally land on his little brother, smirk planted firmly on his thin face. He almost let himself chuckle when he saw Sam clench his jaw, but decided against it. The smirk got Sam every time anyway.

Sam rolled his eyes (_again)_ and started to eat, shoving his fork into his mouth harder than necessary.

"And you can stop looking at me like that now, Sammy. I'm fine, really," Dean reassured, glancing up from the newspaper that beckoned him from a nearby table. "I'm not some delicate little flower that's just gonna blow away when a gust of wind strikes because that's the title you currently hold," he mumbled the last part, but obviously not low enough because he saw his little brother's face reddening. "Stop being such a girl, I was only kidding," he said with a grin as he grabbed up the newspaper and started to flip through the pages. He couldn't help but jump when Sam laid his hand atop his. "What?" he snapped, jerking his hand back as though he'd been burned. "What?" he repeated, this time he hoped a little more calmly.

Sam stared at him for a long moment as though he were studying him, then finally shook his head and mumbled what looked like, "Never mind, you never listen to me anyway."

At least, he was pretty sure that's what was said. Knowing Sam, it was anyway.

"Of course I don't listen to you, Sammy, I'm deaf," he stated, taking his eyes off Sam and the hurt expression that was now on his face. He sighed, and continued to flip through the pages. He hated the tension that tended to come between them, now especially. There had been a few bad days since he'd had that damn dream, times where he'd look over while he was driving and Sam would stare back at him with black eyes and he'd almost wreck the car, and then claim that something had ran out in the middle of the road when there clearly hadn't been anything there. Then, more often than not, he'd jump practically every time Sam touched him, didn't matter how faint it was, he just couldn't stop himself. He hated feeling so damn weak and on edge and _pathetic_, and he knew better—he _knew_ better—but he just couldn't stop his reaction. It didn't help that Sam would just stare at him for minutes afterward, trying to figure out what the hell he had done, which was really nothing. It wasn't _his_ fault Dean mistook him for being a demon every now and then.

But then there were other times—that were becoming more and more common—when he'd wake up in the passenger seat and catch Sam watching him, always quick to turn his head away and back to the road, but there had been a look in his eyes...an expression Dean couldn't quite place. All he knew is that he didn't like it, and made Sam very aware of that fact. But it still continued to happen, and he couldn't help but wonder the reason.

What _did_ Sam see when he looked at him?

His train of thought was disrupted as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He immediately reached for it, heart pounding as he flipped the cell open.

**+36° 7' 18" n, -97° 4' 7" w**

He stared at the coordinates for a moment—they'd been the first their father had sent them since he'd been ill, and he wondered if the man didn't somehow happen to know that. Feeling Sam's eyes on him, he glanced up from the phone, disliking the dark expression he was met with. Sam was already starting to shake his head even before Dean could get a word out.

"Sammy-"

"No, Dean. No. I'm not going anywhere that man sends me anymore. I'm through listening to him, and you should be too," Sam stated, clenching his jaw.

Dean couldn't help but feel angry, Sam's stubborn resistance already beginning to piss him off. "We've been through this before, dammit, and the fact that someone needs our help there should make you stop acting like such a bitchy jackass. If Dad wants us there, it's for a reason. We're going."

"Why do you always follow him so blindly, Dean?" Sam nearly shouted, attracting half of the busy diner's attention.

"I don't-"

"Yes, _you_ do," Sam argued, face beginning to redden. "You're right, we _have_ been through this before, and you're still following him just as dumbly as always."

With those words, Dean stood up abruptly, jaw clenching visibly through his skin as he grabbed his jacket and mumbled so low Sam almost couldn't hear him, "I'm leaving in five minutes. If you're not in the car by then, you're on your own."

Not even giving his little brother a chance to respond, he stalked out the door, shrugging on his jacket. The air was still biting cold, and he felt every gust as it blew against him as he made his way to the car. His heart was still pounding in his chest, and he could feel the way it made his neck throb, pulling the skin tighter, pulse far higher than it should've been. His hands were shaking as he threw open the Impala's door, and got inside. It was almost as cold in there as it was outside so he promptly started it up, turning the heat on full blast. He rubbed his hands together quickly, trying to warm them, but it wasn't doing any good. He hadn't been retaining too much warmth nowadays.

He glanced at the diner's door, and it wasn't long before he saw Sam reluctantly shoving it open and pulling his jacket tighter around his thin frame as the bitter wind hit him too. Dean let his gaze shift to the street, the odd car driving past, spitting up slush and dirty snow as it drove past. Trying not to roll his eyes as he felt the car shake with Sam's entry, he glanced over at the taller hunter, the younger of the two's face wearing a stony expression.

It didn't take long before Sam turned to stare at him. "After all that he's done to you, how can you trust him so freely, Dean?" When Dean opened his mouth to interrupt, Sam continued on without missing a beat. "He hurt you, Dean. He treated you horribly, and I don't care what reasons he had, _you _didn't deserve it, and I know you still think you do. There is no reason why we should keep following these coordinates he gives us just because there's somebody there that needs to be saved. In case you haven't noticed, the last few hunts he's sent on us on haven't exactly been picnics. Hell, they've nearly gotten us killed!"

Dean set his jaw as he spoke, eyes gleaming dangerously as he did so. "You and I both know that there's a risk with every hunt we take, and just because Dad's the one sending us there doesn't make the hunt any less important." He paused for a moment, gaze falling back to the lonely street ahead. "Are you in or out?" Quickly, he let his eyes dart in Sam's direction and saw his frustrated response.

"In."

"Now that that's settled," Dean started, reaching across Sam and retrieving a map from the glove box, "Look up those co-ords and tell me where we're going." He casually tossed the object onto Sam's lap and put the Impala into gear.

He didn't have to see it to know that Sam had probably sighed the moment he brushed off their argument and frowned with both his mouth and brow. As much as he wanted to care, he just couldn't find it in himself to do so at the moment. They had work to do (when _didn't_ they?), and a hunt to head to.

They could argue later.

Hell, they always did anyway.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Mile after mile they drove, Sam could feel himself growing more and more anxious, and yet, he had no particular reason why. He just _was_. He knew he kept drawing Dean's attention away from driving due to his constant shifting in his seat, or all the fingernails that he'd managed to chew off again.

Their destination was Stillwater, Oklahoma and Sam couldn't help but dread what was awaiting them there. It was the second hunt they'd been on since Dean had recovered from pneumonia, and Sam wondered if he was actually one hundred percent or just putting on a front (something he was far too good at doing). He was acting more like his normal self, just as bossy and jerk-like as always, but still...

As Sam's gaze drifted from the dashboard to the passenger side window, the dream that he had been plaguing him on and off for the past two weeks now flashed before his eyes. Trees covered with snow and icicles flashed past the Impala, but all Sam could see was a cold, dark motel room; their father struggling with his bindings, calling out for him; and then Dean—his loving and ever-chastising brother—staring at him with pitch black eyes and a sneer meant for a creature of the night, not him, not _Dean._

Almost every time he fell asleep, he was treated to the sight, and he couldn't make sense of it no matter how hard he tried. He could only watch as it happened over and over until he finally forced himself awake, head ache ablaze in his temples and hands trembling violently, body covered in sweat. Sometimes, Dean had caught him and just stared, eyes wide with fear; other times thankfully, he'd stay asleep, or pretend to at least.

_Always pretending..._

Something snapped him back into the present, and remnants of the dream faded as they always did, but they'd come later, haunting his eyes, granting them a quiet gloom that he knew Dean could see because Dean saw everything.

Sam forced his gaze away from the frozen wasteland of southern Missouri and the long harvested corn fields and onto his brother. He was still far too thin, cheek bones peeking through his skin and looking so sharp they could cut paper. With all the food Sam had shoved down his throat lately, it still didn't look as though it had done any good. Dean had gained maybe five pounds, if that, and Sam knew he desperately needed to add more to his scrawny frame.

He was still mad at him too, angry at the fact that he could just up and leave at a moment's notice because their father sent them a text message with some stupid coordinates on it. Sam didn't even try to understand because he didn't want to. Didn't even want to fathom the _why's_ and the _how's. _He just wanted to throttle Dean. As much as he loved him, he couldn't stand to see the constant pain that had become a permanent fixture in his eyes. Sometimes, it actually hurt to look at him, but Sam would never voice that thought. He just knew that if he did, Dean would just withdraw more from him and refuse to speak again.

"Pictures last longer," Dean's smooth voice cut through the car, and Sam just continued to stare, blue eyes full of questions he knew he'd probably never get answers to. Dean glanced at him, green eyes gleaming through the shadows cast upon his face from the dark that was beginning to claim the cloud-laden winter sky. "You really gotta stop with all that worrying, Sammy. You're gonna look forty when you're twenty-five. Don't want that now, do ya?" the older of the two quipped, but Sam just couldn't find it in himself to smile.

He hated the fact that their father still had control over them even though he wasn't there, and Dean just went along with as though it were okay, but it wasn't. Couldn't he see that? _No,_ Sam thought sadly, he couldn't.

"Sammy, just stop, will you?" And Dean's tone had done a complete one-eighty. Instead of sounding teasing and light, it sounded desperate and pained; pleading.

Sam decided to play dumb this time. "Stop what?" he asked, holding out his left hand, palm facing upwards, and brought his right hand down on it sideways, then shrugged.

Dean stared at him for a long moment before turning his eyes back to the road, brow drawing into a frown. "You know what I'm talking about. I'm fine. I don't know how many times I have to tell you that. I haven't even coughed in four days. So just stop.

_Now._"

Sam rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. It was times such as this one where he truly wished Dean could hear. That way, he could scream and shout and tell him what an ass he was being, but instead, he kept it inside, lost in some imaginary scenario in his mind.

Clenching his jaw, he forced his gaze out the window once more, a roadway sign stating they still had almost two hundred more miles to go. He closed his eyes and attempted to prepare himself for what they were going to face next, whatever it may be.

Softly, _Highway to Hell _played on the car radio as Sam drifted off.

S*P*N*S*P*N

"Looks like we're up against a raw head," Dean stated, staring at a bulletin board full of missing children's pictures. There were at least half a dozen tacked and posted to it on the coffee shop wall, boys and girls, mostly under ten.

Dean _hated _ rawheads. Perhaps despised was a better word. They were freaky looking bastards who fed off of children, taking them in the middle of the night from their own beds, never to be seen again, leaving nothing but pain in their wake. He grimaced inwardly.

He couldn't wait to get his hands on this bastard. He'd choke the life out of it—

His train of thought was broken as Sam pushed the laptop across the table, the movement catching his eye. He focused on the screen, reports of desperate parents pleading for someone to bring their children back home to them staring back at him. He scanned the screen, various facts catching his attention.

…_.Six children in three weeks..._

…_.All lived within a five block radius of each other..._

…_.Victims all disappeared during the night, windows and doors still locked..._

…_.No obvious signs of break ins..._

"Okay, so the we know that rawheads tend to live near bodies of water. Any lakes or ponds nearby?" Dean asked, glancing up at his brother.

"Let's see," Sam answered, brow lowered in concentration as he pulled the laptop back and began a search. Dean watched as his fingers tapped across the keys, becoming a mere blur as they danced across the keyboard. After a few seconds, he turned the computer sideways so they could both see the screen.

"No bodies of water nearby, however," Sam stated, clicking on another page, a new news article popping up when he did, "according to this, there's a drainage ditch that runs along this block; the same block that two of the children lived on."

"So, more than likely, it's using one of those homes as its lair," Dean concluded, looking up from the screen to Sam.

Sam nodded in response. "And," he said, clicking on another link, "the drainage ditch flooded the last three houses on the block."

"Which means one of those is our spot. Just gotta find out which one's vacant. Then, we go in and nab the sonofabitch," he said with a determined look set upon his features. "See," he started, sliding a surefire grin onto his gaunt face, "This one's easy as pie, Sammy."

The neutral expression on Sam's face transformed into a haunted one, tainted with a hint of anger. "Yeah, let's hope so," he mumbled, the muscles in his jaw set tight.

"Ain't no hoping about it, Sammy. C'mon, we got us a rawhead to fry," Dean said, and slid out from the booth they were sitting at.

Sam watched as his brother walked away, and prayed that he was right; prayed that this would be an in an out job, and they could be on their merry way. But as much as he wanted to believe that, the logical part of his brain warned him that sometimes, no matter how much praying was done, things could still turn to shit.

And he hated—_hated_—when that part of his brain was right.

S*P*N*S*P*N

"That the place?" Dean asked, nodding towards a dilapidated-looking, one-story structure as they pulled up along a row of homes, none appearing too much better off than the one he was gesturing towards.

"Yeah, if you can believe it," Sam replied, taking in the scenery. The entire neighborhood looked to be in dire need of repair, most of the houses looking uninhabitable, and Sam wondered how people even managed to stay in them.

"We've lived in a few places like this," Dean's soft voice cut through the car, jerking Sam from his thoughts.

"What?" he asked, brow lowered in confusion as he stared at Dean, the older hunter wearing a distant expression on his weary visage.

Dean stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. "Nothing," he mumbled, face now set in determination as he steered the car into the alley behind the house. He came to a stop in the rear of the building, and exited the Impala. He stepped out and made his way to the trunk, pushing it open and removing two tasers from the rear compartment.

"Got these set to one hundred thousand volts, so be careful, Sammy. You only get one shot, so make it count," Dean stated, handing one of the tasers over to his little brother, voice serious and all business.

Sam took in a breath and nodded, not liking the way the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end.

Dean extracted a couple of flashlights as well, handing one to Sam. "You ready?" Dean asked, eyes automatically focusing on his brother's lips.

"Yep," Sam replied, waiting for Dean to lead the way.

The older of the two instantly took charge, going up the raggedy, wooden steps carefully, steadily; first. They creaked softly, the faint sound barely audible as it was muffled against the wind that had begun to howl. It made no difference to Dean. He'd trained himself to be as light as possible on his feet for years, scaring Sam and their father alike numerous times, but he knew if he were to even be a decent hunter, he had to learn to control the way his weight shifted on certain objects.

The difference was noticeable to Sam, and he couldn't help but second guess his stealth, no matter how fleeting or momentary the thought.

What little moonlight they had was soon covered as they neared the back door, darkness blanketing them as Dean tried the door. Unsurprisingly, it wasn't locked. Steadying himself, he opened it slowly using the tip of his taser and proceeded forward, cautious with every move. Within seconds, he felt Sam gently tap him on the shoulder. Steeling himself, he jerked his head in his brother's direction, and was met with, "Downstairs," and Sam held his hand up to his ear.

Dean nodded in response, and silently made his way down the hallway, careful not to trip on the old toys and other clutter that littered the weathered floorboards. The door leading to the basement was already wide open, and Dean didn't waste any time making his way through it and down another set of rickety stairs, with Sam in tow.

Once they were at the bottom, he glanced back at Sam, looking for an indication of the origin of the noise. Sam pointed towards an ancient-looking cupboard that had seen much better days, and as Dean let his gaze travel to it, he saw how it shook ever so slightly. Tasers at the ready, they both made their way over to it, and without hesitation, Dean threw the doors open.

Heart pounding in his chest, he couldn't help but be thankful at the sight that met his vision; two of the children that had been missing were huddled in the small space, fear plastered bright in their scared eyes and their hands covering their ears. Dean quickly tried to reassure them. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay," he said, putting on the warmest smile he could dredge up as he laid a comforting hand on the little boy's shoulder.

They both started nodding, and he immediately glanced back at Sam for an answer. "It's still here," Sam stated, worry threaded throughout his features.

Dean turned back towards the children. "Alright, we're gonna get you two out of here. Grab your sister's hand. That's it. Let's go," he said, helping them both up and out of the confines of the cupboard. He carefully guided them towards Sam, and gave them all a gentle push as he stayed behind, ready to take the rawhead out at a moment's notice.

Sam had made it to the middle of the stairs when suddenly, the rawhead's bony hand reached out from between the steps and grabbed a hold of his ankle, bringing him down hard and fast on the wooden staircase.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, eyes darting through the dark in an attempt to locate the creature. As soon as he spotted it, he aimed the taser and shot at it, but missed. "Dammit!" he cursed, glancing back in Sam's direction. "Go! Get them out of here!"

He could see the reluctance in Sam's eyes, not wanting to leave him all alone down there, but he knew that Sam knew that it had to be done. "Make it count!" Sam shouted to him as he tossed his taser at him, and Dean nodded thankfully.

His gaze immediately traveled back to the place where the rawhead had first appeared, only to find the spot empty. Letting instinct kick in, he began to scan every inch of the dank basement, the smell alone making him want to gag, but he held his reflex in check and continued to search for the creature. He'd taken less than five steps before it appeared out of nowhere, catching him completely off-guard and knocking him to the floor. He hit the concrete hard, hard enough to phase him for a moment until he realized exactly where he was at, and what the hell he was supposed to be doing.

Dean scrambled away as the rawhead advanced on him, saliva dripping from its cracked lips as it pursued him. The young hunter had lost hold of his weapon and flashlight when he fell, and was thankful for having more than well-trained eyes when he finally located it a few feet away from him on the floor. Without hesitation, he dove for it and turned back around, pulling the trigger on the mechanism and watching as it hit its target.

The rawhead trembled violently as the electricity took hold of its body, and Dean was almost able to let out a sigh of relief, until he realized what was happening; and by then, it was too late.

S*P*N*S*P*N

He'd listened to Dean, even though he didn't want to, he did, and couldn't help but feel regret for it. He managed to get the kids outside and safely away from the rawhead; and then, he made his way back into the house and down the stairs. Without a flashlight, it wasn't all that easy to see in the dark, but it didn't take long for him to find the one thing that he feared the most.

"Dean!" he shouted, not giving a shit that his brother couldn't hear him. "Dean!" he yelled again as he rushed over to his brother's still figure, grabbing a hold of his collar and pulling him up half-way off the floor. Dean was unconscious, breath slow and labored, and Sam immediately forced himself into action. Water stained the knees of his pants as he knelt down, fishing for his phone with one hand, and holding Dean up with the other.

Having dialed the number countless times, he didn't even have to look at the keypad of his phone to do so. After a few rings, an operator answered, and he quickly proceeded to tell them his location and situation.

It wasn't long before the sound of sirens rang in his ears, and without even thinking (because he wasn't exactly in a calm, rational mode at the moment), he lifted Dean up, chest sinking with the lightness of his brother's frame. He promptly carried him up the stairs and away from the rawhead's corpse (because how in the hell was he going to explain that one to the EMTs?), and out of the house, gently laying Dean in the front yard. His mind was racing and his heart pounding, and it didn't take much to put two and two together.

He'd told him to be careful, hadn't he?

_Hadn't_ he?

Sam could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, but he forced them back, blinking them away as the ambulance pulled up. Two paramedics hopped out of the vehicle, and Sam did his best to stay calm but the act was a trying one.

One of the EMTs, a dark-haired male, came up to him, medical pack in hand. "He's been electrocuted?" the man asked, glancing at Sam. He quickly nodded in response, eyes still glazing over against his will. "It'll be okay..."

"Sam, my name's Sam," the brunette replied, voice two shades from being steady. He cleared his throat, but it wasn't helping matters much.

"Okay, Sam, why don't you do me a favor, and give us a little room, okay? I'm Matt, by the way," he said calmly, offering Sam a pleasant but urgent smile.

"Right, right, sorry. Um, yeah," the youngest Winchester mumbled and slowly backed away, worried eyes never leaving Dean. He ran a hand through his hair, and it was only then he realized how badly he was shaking. "He's—if you say something to him, he won't be able to hear you. He's deaf," he explained, swallowing thickly.

Matt nodded, glancing at him, and then diverted his attention back to Dean. Sam watched as they checked his pulse, and couldn't help but feel the tiniest bit of relief when he heard Matt mention to the other EMT that there was still something there; that his heart was still beating in his chest. Inwardly though, he chastised himself for not even thinking to check his brother's vitals. All he had thought of was getting Dean out of that dank, cold basement that seemed far too much like a graveyard than what it actually was.

He'd been so busy watching Dean that he hadn't even realized the police were there, comforting and speaking with the children, and him as well. He hadn't heard a single word they'd said.

He murmured his answers to a uniformed officer, never letting his gaze leave his brother, and as they loaded him up into the ambulance, he was thankful that the officer that was questioning him gave him the go ahead to follow them.

The drive to the hospital was a mere blur; the only thing he could pay attention to was the lights of the emergency vehicle in front of him. It wasn't long before they reached Stillwater Medical Center, but it was hours before he heard anything about Dean's condition.

After one last round of questions from the police (nothing major), he was finally approached by a doctor. Bald and dark-complected, the medical professional greeted Sam promptly. "Mr. Burkowitz? I'm Dr. Theron," the man said as he walked up to him, a neutral expression on his face.

Sam swallowed and nodded. "How is he?"

"He's resting right now, but I'm afraid, I don't have good news." Sam's heart sunk as the man continued on, though he barely paid attention to his words. "When he was electrocuted, it triggered a massive heart attack. The organ is badly damaged. I'm sorry, but there isn't much we can do now but keep him comfortable."

Sam shook his head, not sure he was hearing right. "I'm sorry, but what exactly do you mean by _keep him comfortable_?" He could feel the anger welling up in his chest, and tears springing to his eyes, because the man had to be wrong. Even if he was a doctor, he was still human, and humans were wrong all the time. It didn't make sense! Dean was strong, and capable, and _not dying._

_Not dying..._

_Not dying..._

_Nonono!_

"I'm sorry, Mr. Burkowitz, but he's dying. His heart is weak, and at this point, there are no viable treatment options. He has a few weeks, maybe a month left, but not much more. I really am sorry," the doctor apologized again before walking away.

Sam stared in disbelief at the spot where the man had just stood. He shook his head to himself, not caring if he looked like he belonged in a mental ward or not. This wasn't happening. There was no way in hell that his brother was dying. _No, _it just wasn't possible. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he furiously wiped it away.

_No,_ this wasn't happening. He wouldn't allow it. He was going to find a way to save Dean, because it needed to be done—because Dean _was_ going to be saved. And after Dean was saved, they would find their father and...

There would be time to think about that later. For now, keeping Dean alive was his main priority.

_Hold on big brother..._

**A/N : I don't think I have enough words to offer up an apology for taking so long to get this out to you all. I am beyond floored and appreciative of the support that I've gotten for this story, and I seriously can't thank you all enough. RL has kicked my ass these past few months, and once again, I truly am sorry it took so long to update. MANY, MANY THANKS goes out to Niweeg, babyreaper, HPSmallCharm29, Zuza chan, renniespice, dandy44, Glades of Grey, Bethan1996SPN(I wish I could update faster, but working 60+hrs a week, doesn't exactly help, once again, my apologies:), kissacazador, Bloodmoon-Shinigami, silencesuffers, CrazyDreamin, and all those that have faved or have this story on one of their lists. I seriously can't thank you all enough. Hope to update sooner rather than later, and hope this chapter sufficed. Thank you all again :) Oh, and if anyone ever wants to chat about this story or SPN or anything, I've got a few ways to reach me on my profile page. :D**


	10. Watch the Moon Disappear

**The Illusionist II**

**Chapter 10 : Watch the Moon Disappear**

In all his years, Dean honestly thought that he'd never felt as horrible as he did now. He'd been stabbed, possessed, beaten, broken numerous bones; but nothing compared to the way he felt right at the current moment. Absolutely nothing.

His chest still felt like it was on fire, each new breath slow and labored (_breath in, breathe ou—damn that hurts_); and it felt like he just couldn't take in enough air. He could still feel his heart beating in his chest, and he wondered just how much longer it would continue to do so. The doctors had come and gone, all with solemn looks on their faces, saying how sorry they all were. And because this little town apparently didn't have any deaf people or translators in it (especially when all he wanted to do was just pass out from exhaustion), he'd had to attempt to read all of their lips. His eyelids had drooped the majority of the time, and one doctor even claimed that he would have wrote what he was saying down, except he didn't want to seem insensitive towards Dean's illness. Dean had, in turn, scoffed, and finally let himself drift off.

He woke up, unsure of the time (he could see faint sunlight peaking through the windows indicating morning had beaten him to the punch), and found Sam, passed out in the chair beside his bed. The kid looked utterly worn and Dean knew if Sam looked that terrible, that he must've really looked like shit. He was suddenly very glad that there weren't any mirrors around.

Sam's spidey-senses must have been tingling, Dean figured, because it wasn't more than two minutes later when the sleep-deprived brunette opened his eyes, gaze falling on Dean. The older hunter waved in response, eyes more weary than he ever could've known.

"Morning," Sam said, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair as he sat up.

"_You should go back to the motel,"_ Dean signed, barely having the energy to raise his hands up, index and middle fingers on each hand pointed in the opposite direction as he crossed them, one hand in front of the other.

"I didn't want to leave you," Sam admitted, voice wavering as he spoke.

"_I'm not going anywhere,"_ he stated, with hands that felt like lead weights. He couldn't help it though; he just didn't feel like talking. It almost seemed...pointless now, and he had no idea why.

"Dean-"

"_Sammy,"_ he mouthed, but signed the words for 'little brother' instead. "_Just go_," he said, bringing his right hand up and drawing his fingers together as he moved his hand away from his head.

The whole situation was all wrong and Dean knew it. He _hated_ it. Hated the horribly sad expression that was plastered across every line and crease on his brother's worn face; hated the fact that every time he breathed, it felt like a chore; but what he hated more than anything was the fact that he'd be leaving Sam behind.

He'd known for awhile that he'd probably be the first to go. It was a secret that he carried deep down within himself, only for him to know, only for him to believe. He'd buried that thought as far as it could go, but there were times, where it would surface, and he would be reminded that it was only logical.

Sam wasn't meant for this life; never had been. And God, if he didn't feel the biggest and most selfish ass for dragging him along for the ride. Sam didn't want to hunt. Hell, he'd hated hunting ever since Dean could remember. Always bitching and complaining about having to do research, or how often they moved, or the fact that Dean was always getting hurt—

_Better me than him..._

Dean could hardly stand to look at his little brother now, because all he saw when he looked into Sam's eyes was complete and unadulterated devastation. And, of course, he had been the one to cause it.

_Again._

"_You need to shower anyway. You stink," _he joked, grimacing as he pinched his nose. He was trying desperately to lighten Sam's mood. He could see the tears glimmering in his baby brother's eyes already, and it just made him feel even worse.

"I'll be back," Sam said, speaking with both his voice and hands.

Dean forced a tight smile on his face that they both knew was fake. "_And I'll be here. Don't worry, Sammy, I'm not dead yet."_

Sam nodded in response and walked out the door, hesitance ever present in his step.

Dean shook his head and sighed, and immediately regretted the action. It made the pain in his chest flare up.

_So, after all these years, this is how it happens. Good one, Dean. _

He closed his eyes, and swallowed thickly, hating the tears that were springing to his eyes. One managed to break free of its tightly-lidded prison, and he wiped it away as fast as he could, the action making him feel all the more tired.

It wasn't long before he drifted off, falling into a dreamless sleep that was interrupted a few hours later by a nurse wanting to check his signs and force some medication down his throat. He watched her with wary eyes, the irritated look on her face making him want to spit the pills right back out and onto the floor.

When she forgot to hand him a cup of water to wash the white tablets down, he _really_ wanted to spit the pills back out. Even though he'd dry-swallowed many an aspirin or pain pill in his life, he really needed the water right now. His throat felt drier than a desert on a hot summer day, and when she continued to ignore him, he pressed the alert button on his bedside remote.

The woman who looked to be in her late forties with graying hair and a stout build immediately looked up at him from the chart she was busy scribbling something down on. "What?" she asked, and he could see the annoyance that was etched into her lowered brow.

He held his right hand up in the shape of a 'W' with his thumb and pinkie finger touching, and tapped his index finger to his lips twice.

"Excuse me?" she asked, and he couldn't help but imagine what her voice sounded like. Probably low and throaty—she looked like a longtime smoker.

He repeated the action and even mouthed the word water, but it was apparent that she still didn't understand. He finally resorted to forming his hand in the shape of a cup and brought it towards his mouth, as though he were drinking something.

"You want water?" she asked, and he could see the yellowish tint of her teeth behind her thin lips. Definitely a smoker. He nodded in response. "Why didn't you just say something?" she muttered with a roll of the eyes, and all he could do was stare, confusion marked on his quirked brow. "Don't choke on it now," she said as she handed him the cup, and as he went to take a drink, he saw that the liquid in the cup wasn't clear.

It was red.

_Blood._

His head jerked up and the nurse was staring at him, black, dead eyes wide and menacing; she was laughing as well, her entire body shaking with the gesture.

Dean's eyes immediately popped open and he was met with an empty hospital room. There was no nurse there, just the smell of ammonia and other disinfectants burning his lungs.

He had to get out of here—had to get back to Sam.

_Sammy._

He was wide awake now, even though his entire body still felt like he'd just run three marathons consecutively. Clenching his jaw, he slowly pushed the covers off of his legs and slid them over the side of the bed. He shivered as soon as his toes hit the cold linoleum floor and immediately longed for the warmth of the blankets that he'd left behind. Rolling his eyes at his own weakness, he pushed himself up off the mattress and forced his legs to start moving, not before almost ripping the IV that was in his hand out first though. He grimaced as the needle pulled and tugged at his skin, and without hesitance, he grasped the line and yanked it out. Blood instantly poured from the opening and he hurriedly clamped the bandage that had been keeping the line in securely firmly across it.

The few steps to the dresser where his clothes were tucked away in were harder to make than he thought. There was sweat already beginning to bead on his brow, but his hands were shaking as he reached into the drawer and grabbed his belongings. The hairs on his arms were standing on end, goosebumps dotting his skin, and his teeth were chattering too.

Painstakingly, he began the slow process of pulling on his clothes, something that would have normally only taken a minute or two taking him ten instead. He'd managed to get on his boxers, jeans, socks, boots, and a t-shirt when his gaze landed on the hoodie Sam had left behind earlier. He stared at the familiar material and realized that it was Sam's _old_ hoodie, the one he'd left behind so long ago.

_As if that weren't left there on purpose...brat._

He pulled on the soft material as quickly as he could and slid his jacket on over it. The cotton was soft and warm on his skin that he almost considered laying back down.

_Almost._

_No—_he had to get out of there—_now._

He did a once over of the room, making sure he didn't leave anything behind. Once he was satisfied, he began the trek of getting out of there and as far away from the hospital as he could. He put on his best _there's-nothing-wrong-with-me-I'm-fine _face and made his way slowly but surely down the hallway, past the nurses station, and to the elevators. He hadn't even bothered to check the time, but judging from the lack of personnel and people in general, he figured it must have been late, late enough that visiting hours were probably coming to a close or already over.

Pulling his jacket tighter around his too-thin frame, he stepped through the doors as soon as they opened, relieved that the first part of his mission was completed. He slumped against the elevator wall, hating the fact that he was already exhausted so soon. He felt the mechanism dip lower and lower until finally the pull of gravity stopped and the floor stayed still. He looked up as the elevator's doors opened, and was grateful to see that no one was waiting to get on.

_Less people to have to fool..._

He took a deep breath—slow and steady— and exited the elevator, making his way out and into the lobby. The cold, fresh air burned as it entered his lungs when he stepped outside and into the evening air. The sky was littered with clouds, blocking out the moonlight that was trying to shine through them. He looked around, gaze falling on the bus stop. Realizing that it was probably the only way he was going to get back the to the motel (because there wasn't a taxi in sight, and hell, if he didn't have the money for one anyway), he forced his legs to move. It took too long (in his opinion) to get there, but finally, he reached his destination, inwardly hoping that the bus would show up sooner rather than later.

He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the metro sign, unable to keep his eyes from closing. His body just felt so heavy...

_You won't be able to see it coming if your eyes are shut, dumbass._

Dean's eyes quickly opened wide. He hated when that happened. He would be doing just fine (well, as fine as Dean Winchester could be), and then his father's voice would run through his head, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Even after all these years, John's voice never changed. Low, gruff, and gravelly; he'd never forget it.

He let out a breath as the bus he'd been waiting on finally pulled up, the doors opening, awaiting his entrance. He pulled out his wallet and retrieved two, one dollar bills and slid them into the fare slot. Not chancing a walk to the back, he decided to just sit up front, sliding into the nearest seat and jamming his hands into his pockets (they were freezing, dammit).

Dean let his gaze fall to outside the window, watching as businesses and homes passed by, the streets growing emptier as they trekked along. He let his eyes close; he'd be at the motel soon enough.

At least he wasn't going to die in that hospital after all.

S*P*N*S*P*N

"_This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, text my son, Dean. 866-907-3235. He can help..."_

"Hey, _John,_ this is your other son, Sam, and I just wanted to let you know that Dean isn't doing too well right now. In fact, the doctors are saying that he doesn't have much time left. Not really sure if you care or not, since technically, it _is_ your fault, since you're the one that sent us on that hunt; but I figured that you should know. Although, somehow, I think you already do." Sam cleared his throat, and did his best to stop it from shaking. "And if you're wondering how I found this number, well, let's just say some of your associates are more than willing to give it up. Oh, and Dad? I can't wait til we do find you, because when we do—"

A knock at the door stopped Sam from what he was about to say. "You know what, never mind," he mumbled and hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed and getting up. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand before he reached for the knob, trying to figure out who would be banging on his door in this town at nine o'clock at night. Hesitantly, he pulled the door open, his eyes widening when he saw Dean standing there on the other side.

"Dean?" his brother's name automatically tumbled out of his mouth. "What are you doing here?"

"_Checked myself out,"_ he signed, barely raising his hands as he did so. God, he was tired.

"Are you crazy?" Sam asked, using only one hand instead of two to sign the word for 'crazy'. He brought his left hand up, index finger pointed out, and rotated it a few times next to his head.

Dean smirked and shook his head, slowly dragging his body across the threshold and into the room.

Sam immediately shut the door, and reached out to help his brother. As much as he knew Dean hated it, he grabbed a hold of his arm, inwardly cringing when he felt the muscles under his hand tensing. It didn't help that Dean had made a soft noise of protest, one Sam had never heard pass between his brother's lips before. It sounded so wounded, so scare, so..._weak_.

He helped him over to a nearby chair, and sat down across from him, taking in his brother's appearance. Sam didn't think Dean could look any worse than he had a few weeks ago, but somehow, this time he'd managed to top it. The skin under his eyes was bruised, rings of deep purple taking up occupance there. There were shadows on his cheeks were flesh was supposed to be, the skin pulled too tightly over the bones there. The hoodie that Sam had left for him swallowed his thin frame, and from Sam's vantage point, it looked as though even breathing was now a strenuous activity for his brother.

"I've been calling people these last few days, and I think I might've found someone who can help you," Sam stated, eager hands moving so fast he had to slow himself down. Whether or not Dean wanted to admit it, the younger hunter could tell that he was beyond exhausted and could barely keep up.

"_Help me what?"_ Dean asked, holding one hand out while he rested the other on top in a 'thumb's up' position, then shrugged.

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's obliviousness, and replied, "Help you stay alive." He paused, swallowing back the lump that was lodged in his throat. "For longer than a month."

He watched as Dean took in a breath, grimacing all the while and looked down, gaze landing somewhere on the carpet.

"_Sammy,"_ Dean finger spelled his name. The movements were slow and sluggish, and Sam could see the bluish tint that Dean's fingers held. _"Just...let it go."_

Sam shook his head, sending his hair askew as hot, angry tears filled his eyes. "No," he said, even though Dean wasn't even looking at him. He couldn't stop himself as he got up from the chair and went over to his brother, and the movement immediately drew Dean's attention.

"I'm not just going to let this go," Sam stated, hurt filling his eyes and overflowing out into his voice. It was trembling badly, and something told him that Dean didn't have to be able to hear it to know. "You can't just give up, Dean."

_You can't just leave me alone like that!_

"Besides, like I said, I've found someone. He lives in Nebraska, and we're leaving first thing in the morning." Sam cleared his throat, and ran a hand through his hair.

"_You're not going to let me die in peace, are you?"_ Dean asked, barely able to keep his eyes open.

"Not in a million years," Sam answered, unable to keep himself from leaning over and throwing his arms around his brother. He could feel Dean flinch, but he wouldn't let go. After a few moments, he felt a hand slowly come to rest on his side.

"Whatever, Sammy." Dean's voice was faint, scarcely audible, but Sam had no trouble hearing it.

S*P*N*S*P*N*

_The sky always seems to be gray nowadays..._

Dean stared out the window of the Impala, clouds blanketing the sun once again, not letting any light filter through their cover. His head was resting on the seat, and he'd been sleeping on and off ever since they left Oklahoma. Miles and miles of roads had passed, and he barely had the energy to even glance at Sam whom he knew had been staring at him the good majority of their trip.

He'd been awake as they'd crossed over into Kansas, and memories had instantly flooded over him. Of Lawrence, of days past, of their father—he forced himself to sleep then—that way, he wouldn't have to deal with them.

He woke up right before they rode into Lincoln, and Sam had told him they were close, less than an hour away now. The kid had looked so hopeful, but all Dean could do was nod and flash a hint of a tight-lipped smile—nothing more.

His limbs still felt as though they were made of lead, and it hurt when he had to take a deep breath, but he always made sure his head was turned away from Sam. He didn't want his little brother to see how truly weak he was; didn't want him to see how pathetic and fragile he'd become. Hell, he really didn't want to know what it was going to be like in the next two weeks. He thought it was bad now, and things were only supposed to grow worse.

He suddenly felt Sam's hand on his arm, and he couldn't help but jump at the unexpected touch. The movement made his heart race, and pain immediately flooded through his body. He tried to hide the grimace, but it was too late, Sam had already seen it.

"We're here," he saw his brother say, brow fixed in worry.

His gaze immediately darted out the window and to the tent that stood some fifty yards in front of them. He rolled his eyes, already not liking where this was going. He'd managed to just get the door open, not even one foot out of it yet, and Sam was already there, waiting for him. Irritation crept through his veins and he felt himself pushing his little brother away, hating himself for his actions, but unable to stop them.

He knew Sam was just trying to help—and he couldn't even count the numerous times he'd always been there, being the shoulder to lean on for his little brother—but it was different when he was on the receiving end of it. It just didn't feel right, so he just chose not accept it (and didn't look into Sam's eyes either—he didn't want to see the hurt he was causing).

Dean took in a breath and stood up, carefully closing the car door behind him. He kept his gaze on the ground for a moment, Sam's shadow hovering ever close.

"Thought you said we were going to see a doctor," Dean said, his voice raspy from no use. He looked up to find Sam already speaking, and could tell by the way his brother's eyes were squinted and the slight smirk on his face that whatever he was saying was being spoken in a smartass and sarcastic manner.

He couldn't help but roll his eyes and shake his head. "I can't believe you took me to someone that heals people out of a tent, Sammy." Letting out a breath, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and started to walk, Sam right there by his side, hands skirting along his arms, just in case. "If I fall, I promise I'm not going to break into pieces," he muttered, and glanced up just in time to see his brother's brow furrow.

"You know, you don't have to be so resistant."

"He's a faith healer, Sammy," Dean replied, keeping his gaze steady on his brother's face and lips, all the while trying to concentrate on breathing and keeping his heart rate down. It just felt like he couldn't get enough air, and Goddammit, he hated it.

"And? Maybe you need to have a little faith, Dean. Believing in something's better than nothing," Sam said, sincerity written across his visage.

"Yeah, and maybe you should have just let me-"

Sam held his hand up in front of Dean's face to cut him off.

"Do _not_ say it, Dean. Just don't," he ordered pleadingly, and Dean clenched his jaw, hating the sadness that was gleaming in Sam's eyes.

"Just don't expect a miracle to happen, Sammy. You and I both know they aren't real," Dean murmured, and let out a gasp as Sam grabbed a hold of his arm, though his grip was loose and gentle.

"One day, Dean, I hope you'll change your mind," and with that, he stepped into the tent. Dean followed unsurely, wondering if he'd just read his brother's lips correctly. Shaking his head, he took in the scene before him, his eyes not missing a beat.

The tent was large, large enough to hold at least a hundred people or so. His gaze traveled to the corner, and his eyes narrowed when he spotted a camera placed there. He nudged his brother and nodded towards the device. Sam glanced at it, but said nothing. "You don't find that strange?" he asked, but all he got in response was Sam's arms around him, guiding him towards the front of the venue. "_Why don't we just sit there?" _he asked, fingers and hands flying. Sammy was really starting to piss him off. The kid knew Dean didn't take orders from anyone. Well, with one exception, of course.

"Come on," Sam instructed, hands still grasping Dean's arms.

"Sam," and the name was spoken through gritted teeth. He could feel his heart racing even faster. This whole place was just wrong—all fuckin' wrong—and he hated it. He just wanted to get the hell out of there and die somewhere in peace, forgotten by everyone but his little brother. And he could live with that, he honestly could.

Sam didn't stop until they were a few rows away from the front. "Right here's perfect," he said, though Dean didn't hear him. The older hunter scowled as Sam sat down first, leaving the aisle seat to him. Dean stared at him for a moment, jaw clenching visibly through his skin before he finally gave in and sat down, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm so going to come back and haunt your ass," he said, smirking as he glanced at his brother, and trying not to let the pain in Sam's eyes burrow into his chest and take up residence there.

It did anyway.

Rolling his eyes, he looked up to the front, an older man appearing, clad in a white, short-sleeved dress t-shirt, dark-colored slacks, and dark-tinted glasses. Dean could feel the corners of his lips turning upwards. Of course Sam would take him to a _blind_ faith healer of all people.

_Ha! Awesome, I'm deaf and he's blind. We'd make the perfect pair._

The man began to speak, and Dean watched his lips move, attempting to take in all that he was saying. He listened with his eyes as the man named Roy LeGrange started to talk about how horrible things were in the world today, and how God punishes the evil but takes care of the good.

_Wonder what world he's living in...It's not God that punishes the evil; it's us._

"Now, friends, it is the Lord who does the healing here, and he allows me to see into people's hearts," the older gentleman continued.

"Yeah, and into their wallets," Dean thought, cheeks reddening when he realized he'd actually spoken those words aloud.

"You think so, young man?" Roy asked, and Dean glanced at Sam only to see his younger brother mouth, "He's talking to you." And damned if the kid didn't appear more hopeful.

_Shit._

"Sorry," Dean mumbled, swallowing down the saliva that was gathering on his tongue. He really needed to get the fuck out of there—like now.

"No, it's alright," Roy replied, a smile catching at his teeth. "Just watch what you say around a blind man. We tend to have real sharp ears."

All Dean could do was stare, embarrassment and anger warring over his features.

"What's your name, son?" the older man asked, face now pointed in Dean's direction.

Dean glanced at Sam, feeling even more mortified because he was having such a hard time understanding exactly what the man was saying.

"He's asking for your name," Sam explained, bringing his right index and middle fingers across his left ones and tapping them four times.

"Dean—It's Dean," the older hunter replied, feeling his heart begin to race in his chest.

"Dean, huh? Dean, I want—I want you to come up here with me," the man stated, and once again, Dean turned to Sam. The hope in his brother's eyes answered any questions he had. That and the fact that Sam was waving him toward the stage, telling him to, "Get up there. _Now_."

The sick hunter looked back and forth between the older man and his brother, then, shook his head. "No—no, it's okay. You should pick someone else." He was avoiding the man's lips now, not wanting to know what he was saying, but before he could cast his gaze too far away, he felt Sam's hand on his chest.

"Go, Dean. _Please_."

And at that moment, all Dean could see was a five-year old Sammy, puppy dog eyes filled with hope and prayers to a God Dean knew didn't exist, but didn't have the heart to say. Finally, he sighed, letting out the breath he'd been holding. Reluctantly, he stood, ducking his head slightly as he walked towards the front, people applauding all around him as he did so.

Each step caused the pain in his chest to intensify, but he kept going, moving the body that felt like it weighed a ton. He took the three steps up to the stage carefully, and was met by who he assumed was the man's wife. Gently, she guided him to the older man's side, bright and hopeful grin lighting up her aging face. He couldn't help note the way she smelled, her scent reminding him of sandalwood and lavender. He shot her one last glance before he hesitantly directed his attention to Roy.

"Are you ready?" the man asked, and Dean could understand him this time.

"I'm—I'm not exactly a believer," he answered, focusing all of his concentration on Roy's response.

"You will be, son. You will be," and with those words, he slowly raised his right hand to Dean's forehead. The feeling of energy seeping through the man's hand was almost instantaneous, and it wasn't long before Dean's knees gaze out. His heart began to pound in his chest, and suddenly it felt as though he couldn't draw in any air. He could feel himself gasping and gasping, and then, just like that, darkness tinted his vision and he fell to the floor with a dull _thump_.

It wasn't long before he felt Sam's hands on him, gripping his shirt and yanking him half way off the floor, calling out to him.

_Wait..._

"Dean! Dean!"

He opened his eyes, and couldn't figure out what scared him more. The fact that he was pretty damned sure there was a ghost currently standing over Roy LeGrange's shoulder, or the fact that he could hear Sam calling out his name.

He could _hear_ Sam calling out his name.

_Well, I'll be damned..._

**A/N : Once again, my apologies for the wait. MANY THANKS goes to HPSmallCharm, Glades of Grey, heather03nmg, babyreaper, MysteryMadchen (shhhhh...you weren't supposed to tell anyone! Lol j/k), Zuzu chan, kissacazador, dandy44, renniespice, Guest, and all of you who have faved or are following this story. Your continued support truly means the world to me, and I seriously can't thank you all enough :) Hope it sufficed for now...**


	11. Ocean of Noise

**The Illusionist Part II**

**Chapter 11 : Ocean of Noise**

Dean wasn't quite sure how they'd made it out to the car—he just knew that they had. And all he could do was stand there, next to the passenger side, brow furrowed in confusion. He stood there for some time, staring at his reflection in the window, unable to quite figure out why he looked different. All he knew is that his appearance had somehow changed.

His head immediately jerked up at the sound of his brother's voice, and all he could do was stare at Sam, eyes wide and searching. His gaze immediately flicked to his lips out of reflex, though there wasn't a need anymore. He could hear him loud and clear, though Sam didn't know that fact.

Yet.

"Dean? Are you okay?" Sam asked, hands and fingers moving in unison, a worried look marring his features.

He hadn't yet spoken either, a deep rooted fear of what his voice sounded like suddenly consuming him. As a response, he only gave his brother a nod before slowly letting his fingers trail across the cool metal handle briefly before he opened the car door.

It squeaked faintly as he pulled it open, the sound blending in with all the others that were suddenly penetrating his ears. He could hear the wind howling, screaming across the low-lying plains as thunder rumbled in the distance. The sound of birds chirping hysterically also drew his attention and he couldn't help but let his eyes wander, attempting to locate them.

Then there was the sound of the Impala starting up as Sam turned the key in the ignition; and for the first time in years, instead of feeling it come to life, he actually _heard_ it.

There was suddenly water in his eyes and he quickly wiped whatever had managed to fall away, and got into the car. The problem was, it just wouldn't stop. The inside of the car was mostly silent as Sam backed out of the muddy lot, and Dean listened and soaked every tiny noise that he could in.

The keys jingled as Sam made the turn onto the highway, and Dean caught his concerned glances out of the corner of his eye as they moved across the pavement, yellow and white lines beginning to pass faster and faster until they began to blur.

They'd only made it about a quarter of a mile before Dean started to sniffle and damn, if he didn't feel like the biggest girl in the world.

But he couldn't help it.

For sixteen years—sixteen years long years—he was unable to hear nothing more than a muffled sound here or there with his old device (long gone thanks to John); but now—now he could hear every fucking thing!

"S-Sammy," the name came, tumbling off his trembling lips, and he wiped his eyes one last time before finally looking over at his brother that was growing more and more worried by the second.

"Dean, what's wrong?" he asked quickly, bringing his right hand up and extending his pinkie finger and thumb while he brought it to his chin, shaking his head once while keeping an eye on the road.

Dean would never admit it (like, seriously, never in a million fucking years), but the noise that managed to burst through his tightly clasped lips sounded like a sob and he immediately brought both hands up to cover his ever reddening face. He was trying to silence himself, because this wasn't right—crying uncontrollably because he wasn't strong enough to stop—and he only felt worse as he heard Sam put on the turn signal and pull over to the shoulder of the road.

The purr of the engine gradually ceased, and suddenly Sam's hands were on him (gentle, always so _damned_ gentle), attempting to pry his hands apart. "Dean," he heard his name being said, and slowly uncovered his face. With his heart pounding in his chest (and with no trace of the pain he'd felt before), he allowed himself to look at Sam, and it took every last ounce of self-control that he had not to break down again.

_Quit acting like that! If Dad could see you now..._

The thought wrapped itself around his brain, and he stiffened for a moment, torn between the mask he usually wore and actually letting Sam in for a moment.

He managed to find a compromise somewhere in between.

With his head hanging and hands shaking in his lap, he murmured the words, "S-Sammy, I can hear again." He didn't look up—not yet.

The car was bathed in absolute silence for a moment, just that damned banshee-sounding wind from outside whirling in and around it.

Suddenly, he felt the car move. He glanced up once he heard Sam's door shut, only to find his brother already on the passenger side, flinging his door open. Dean's eyes widened for a moment, a memory of his father doing the exact same action not that long ago. His body froze up, but it didn't matter, Sam was already there, pulling him up and out of the car and throwing his arms around him in his typical Sammy manner, but at that moment, Dean couldn't find it in himself to care.

He felt one of Sam's hands settle on the back of his head and pull him closer (if that were even possible), whispering, "I knew it. I knew it."

And that's when it really hit Dean.

The last time he had heard his little brother's voice, it had been so hurt, so full of pain (_so_ _high_), and now, it was exactly like he'd imagined it to be. Deep yet comforting—soothing. Everything he had missed and then some, and he could _hear_ it.

He let Sam squeeze him tighter (humoring him just this once, of course), and buried his head into his shoulder, letting the tears that were leading an exodus from his eyes stain Sam's jacket.

He could feel his body shaking—trembling more like it—but he couldn't stop. He just gripped the fabric of Sam's jacket all the more, hoping that it would eventually stop.

After a few more minutes passed by, he slowly backed away, wiping away the last remnants of that damn water that had been pouring from his eyes. He sniffled and looked away, taking in the dreary landscape before letting his gaze fall back on Sam.

The kid was standing there with the brightest grin on his face, tears still glimmering in his eyes. He looked young—too damn young—and so happy. Dean hated that he was about to ruin it.

"As much as I'd like to celebrate, Sammy, we've still got a job to do," and he still felt odd finally being able to hear his own voice after all this time. It sounded so foreign—nothing like he'd thought it be anyway. It was deep, but not too deep. Not nearly as bad as he was expecting. "Something's going on back there."

Sam's grin faltered at the words, but there were still lines around his eyes from the action. "Well, of course, something's going on back there, Dean! A freakin' miracle, that's what!" and if anything, the smile grew wider.

Dean nodded and looked away again, watching lightning zigzag across the sky some miles away, a grim smile settling on his lips. "Sammy—I know that's what you want to believe—"

"What is it, Dean?" The happy tone was gone, replaced with something more cynical and questioning.

"I-I saw something back there, Sammy." He paused, finally letting his eyes lock with his brother's once more. "There was someone standing behind Roy, some sort of spirit. It looked right at me before it disappeared, but it was definitely there."

Sam stared at him, disappointment now set in his eyes. Dean always hated to let the kid down, and this was just another one of those times. As much as Sam might have prayed for a miracle, Dean presumed that this was something else entirely.

"How's-How's your, you know," Sam asked, suddenly finding his hand gestures unneeded as he dragged his fingers away from his chest.

"I...I feel fine, actually. Pretty damned good, to be honest," Dean said, a hint of an actual smile pulling up the corners of his lips.

Sam's eyes gleamed when his brother spoke, the happiness that had faded bouncing back momentarily. It dimmed somewhat again as he spoke. "We should probably get you checked out first thing tomorrow. Just to make sure, you know?" Sam asked, eyes slightly squinted as a stray ray of sunshine trickled through a hole in the storm clouds from above.

Dean nodded in agreement and took in a deep breath. It didn't hurt, not one damned bit. He wanted to be happy and hopeful, but something about the whole event made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Something wasn't right; that much he knew.

He wondered though, if he honestly wanted to find out.

S*P*N*S*P*N

It was storming when they woke up the next morning; a mix of freezing rain and flurries rapping against the motel window. The light noise woke Sam from his restless sleep, only to find his brother standing there, staring out the window, eyes searching for something they both knew wasn't there.

"Mornin' sunshine," Dean said without so much as a glance, gaze still lost to the outside.

Sam rolled his eyes in annoyance at the verbal jab, but the corners of his lips lifted anyway. There was a subtle change in his brother—in the way he stood—that he couldn't help but notice. His back wasn't as hunched as it usually was, looking as though it were bearing the weight of the world on it. He stood straighter, and Sam couldn't help but be happy for him. Getting his hearing back might not have been a miracle, but it was still something.

Something that neither one actually thought would be possible. It didn't hurt that his heart was more than likely healed too.

Sam pushed back the covers and stood up, only to be hit with a wave of dizziness. As patches of blue and purple zigzagged across his vision, he plopped right back down to the bed, immediately drawing his brother's attention.

"Sammy? What's wrong?" Dean asked, worry creasing his brow as he quickly moved from his guard at the window to Sam's bedside.

"Just a little dizzy. It's nothing," Sam mumbled, one hand holding the side of his head.

Without another word, he heard his blood-testing kit being unzipped and prepared.

"Give me your hand," Dean ordered softly, yet firmly, and Sam reluctantly complied.

_Big brother to the rescue,_ he couldn't help but think as he felt the tip of lancet pierce his skin and draw blood. Dean's reaction to the number on the machine told him all he needed to know : his blood sugar was low. "How bad is it?"

Dean was already grabbing a bottle of orange juice from the mini fridge and removing the top. "Fifty-seven," he answered, concern haunting his eyes. "Why's it so low?"

Sam swallowed a mouthful of juice before replying. "The body burns more calories in the cold, and since this room is freezing, I'm guessing I burned more than normal while I was asleep."

"You gotta be more careful, Sammy," Dean chided. "A little lower and you could've blacked out."

Sam could feel a venomous comment readying itself to pass between his lips, but bit his tongue instead. Dean was only trying to help, that was all. He only wished his brother realized he'd been taking care of himself just fine for the past few years. Well, there had been...

_Jessica..._

He quickly cut the thought off, not ready to see her face just yet this morning. It'd been haunting him far too much lately...

"Gonna grab a quick shower, and then it's off to the clinic," Sam stated, finishing off the last bit of juice and standing to his feet, this time without a problem.

"Sammy, I'm fine. Nothing hurts, I can hear again," he said, lifting his hand to his ear. "Maybe we should just go back-"

"Dean," Sam cut him off, sounding so much like their father it was uncanny, and Dean must've noticed it too because as soon as his name was said, his whole body tensed. "We just have to make sure. It'll only take half an hour, if that. Then we'll figure out what's going on. Okay?"

Dean's jaw clenched visibly through his skin, but he nodded without a word. As Sam was grabbing his clothes, he saw Dean sliding on his jacket. "Where are you going?"

"I'll be back in a few. Gonna go grab some coffee."

"Alright," Sam said, watching as Dean picked up the keys to the Impala and went out the door. He heard it start up a few seconds later, the engine purring loudly as Dean drove off. "Ok-ay," Sam mumbled, and hurried into the bathroom, desperate to get under the hot water. He turned the fixture on, and stripped quickly, goosebumps breaking out across his bare flesh. Relief flooded over him as he stepped under the spray, the water pressure just right as it poured out. He closed his eyes and felt his body relax as the water rained down on his skin.

Everything was fine, until suddenly the warmth disappeared and he was in a dark, cold motel room. Though this time wasn't like all the others. He knew that story very well, had the reoccurring vision memorized like the few scars that crossed the flesh on the back of his hand. No, this—this was much different.

The door to the room flew open, a figure being pushed across the threshold. It landed on the floor, while the second figure that had so obviously pushed it stomped into the room, slamming the door closed behind them and flipping on the light. "You just can't do any goddamned thing right, can you, Dean?" And Sam saw who it was—it was their father.

The youngest Winchester watched helplessly as the vision unfolded, unable to do anything but remain a spectator.

John gripped a hold of the fallen figure's collar, jerking him off the floor. It was then Sam could see that it was Dean. Without a doubt.

A pained grunt was all that escaped his brother's lips, and as soon as it did, John reprimanded him with a back-handed slap to the face.

This time it was followed by silence.

"You almost let that damned thing escape!" he shouted, grabbing Dean by the collar once more. "Just because Sam isn't here anymore doesn't give you the right to be so damned lazy! He's gone, Dean. Don't you get that?"

A shaky, barely audible, "Yes, sir," followed.

"I don't think you do," he spat out, and pulled Dean up off the floor and to his feet. "Ten miles. Now," he ordered, and shoved Dean away.

Dean quickly recovered from the push, careful not to fall, and went to pick up his running shoes when John clamped a hand down on his arm. "You're not getting the comfort of those tonight. You stick with what you've got on."

The middle Winchester stood there for a moment, eyes gleaming with silent pleas, but John wasn't having it. "Dean," the warning came and with that, Sam was pulled from the vision and back to the water that was now running cold against his skin.

He hurriedly turned it off and got out, wrapping the cheap motel towel around his shoulders, water dripping to the tiled floor below as he shivered from the cold. He gasped for air, his breath coming so fast he almost started to choke.

"Sam? You alright in there?" came Dean's soft voice from the other side of the door. When Sam didn't respond, Dean spoke again, this time, a little louder. "Sammy? You've got five seconds before-"

"I'm alright!" Sam yelled back, a little too sharply. A pang of guilt immediately struck him in the chest as no response came from the other side of the door this time. Just barely audible footsteps as his brother walked away. "Shit," he mumbled, the previous images still haunting his eyes. He didn't quite understand what the hell was happening, or how he was seeing what he was seeing, or even if they were real; but he did know one thing—he was going to help his brother get through this.

He had to.

S*P*N*S*P*N

He couldn't shake the nausea that was spinning in his gut. Dean could feel the bile threatening to make an appearance; it kept coming up his throat just far enough to burn it, then fall right back down again as he swallowed. It didn't help matters much that his head was starting to ache, and he couldn't figure out if it was because he hadn't eaten for two days, or if he just wasn't used to all the sounds that were now invading his ears and mind.

His fingers tapped nervously on the exam table as he waited for the doctor to come back in, using the gesture as a way to prevent Sam from seeing just how badly his hands were truly shaking. He wondered if the weakness that was slowly snaking through his limbs and crawling up his spine wasn't a sign of low blood sugar, or the fact that he was afraid of what the doctor was going to say. The sound of Sam biting his nails from the chair behind him suddenly threw him from his train of thought, and he turned towards his brother, letting a pointed stare ease across his face as he met Sam's nervous gaze. "What?" the brunette asked, and Dean shook his head, rolling his eyes as he faced the door again.

It wasn't long before it opened and a woman in her mid-thirties came in, clad in a white physician's coat and dress attire. "Well, your test results are back, and everything looks good. Your heart looks just fine, no sign that there was actually anything ever wrong with it. Not that someone your age should be worrying about something like that, however, it does happen," she said, glancing at the clipboard full of results.

"It does?" Dean asked, the nausea growing so strong he clenched his jaw to the point of pain to keep himself from vomiting.

"Yes, it's strange actually. Just yesterday, we had a young man your age, healthy, and no previous cardiac problems pass suddenly from a heart attack. It's rare, but it does happen," she replied. "But all in all, everything looks good."

"Thanks," Dean murmured, attempting to actually look grateful but not having any luck.

"There is one thing I _did_ notice, not that it's anything too much to worry about," she added quickly, once all the blood had drained from Dean's face and his skin was the color of chalk. "Your weight—well, I couldn't help but notice that it's on the low side of what's normal for your height. Just something to keep an eye on."

Dean cleared his throat and nodded, now unable to meet the woman's eyes, one hand sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. He could feel Sam's eyes burning into the back of his skull due to the doctor's last comment, so he opened his mouth first once the woman had left the room, not wanting to hear the lecture that was about to pour from his little brother's lips. "That's more than just coincidence, Sammy," he stated, voice wavering ever so slightly.

He glanced at his brother, watching the way he chewed on his lips before speaking. Dean already knew what he was thinking—he wasn't stupid. However, he was thankful when Sam did finally open his mouth and sounded more hopeful than accusatory. "And maybe it's not? Did you ever think that for just once in your life, something finally worked in your favor?"

"As much as I'd love to believe that, we both know it's not true," Dean stated, pulling on his jacket. "I told you before, I saw something—a ghost, a spirit—I don't know what the hell it was, but it was there. And the feeling I had—when he touched me? Didn't feel right, Sammy. It was cold...like death."

Sam stared at him for a moment, leaving only the sound of the ticking clock that sat upon the wall to fall between them. Finally, he sighed and Dean could see that he was biting the inside of his cheek. "What do you wanna do?"

"I want you to check out the guy that had the heart attack," Dean replied as he headed for the door.

"And what are you gonna do?" Sam asked, immediately falling into step behind his older brother.

"Figure out why I was the chosen one, and not one of the other sap's that were apart of his audience," Dean answered with a straight face. He heard Sam mumble something about "having faith doesn't make people a sap," and couldn't help but let his lips curl into the tiniest of grins.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Dean stared at the house, the two story structure looking more ominous the longer he let his gaze be held by it. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, the frigid wind blowing past him, through him. Dark storm clouds hung in the distance behind the home, purple and blue, and rumbling with menace. He could hear the hired security hands talking back and forth on their hand-held radios, the noise a minor distraction to his fractured thoughts.

He couldn't help but wonder why. Why had he been healed? Why had he been the one to get called up there when there were plenty of other people who had deserved that instead of him?

He wasn't anything special.

He _knew_ this. His father had reminded him of that fact on numerous occasions, and he wondered if Sam had realized that fact yet. He would. It would only be a matter of time before his little brother saw him for what he truly was—a waste of space and air.

And he still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that someone else had died—his age and out of the fucking blue—of a heart attack.

Dean knew that it only could've been his fault. Sam could believe in whatever fairytale he wanted, but he knew the truth. Some innocent person died so he could live. How fucked up was that? He didn't deserve that. He should be asleep in some dark, cheap motel room somewhere, letting the hours and minutes tick away until it was time for his soul to be vanquished from this world.

It was wrong, and he knew it, but he didn't want to care. Care about the fact that he dragged Sam into all of this, and if he would've died, his little brother would be truly alone because there would be no one else left. Sure their father would still be alive and breathing, but Dean was pretty sure that John was all but dead to Sam already.

"Dean? Dean, is that you?" a friendly-sounding female's voice entered his ears, and he immediately jerked his head up to find Roy's wife coming down the wooden steps of the house and towards him, arms folded tightly across her chest due to the cold.

He immediately put on his best counterfeit smile and nodded. "Hello, Mrs. LeGrange-"

"Please," she cut him off with a matching grin, "Call me Sue Ann."

"Alright, Sue Ann..." He let her guide him across the walkway and up the stairs, each creaking sound marveling in his ears.

"I'm so glad you could make it back, Dean. Roy loves to hear from people he's healed. I think it makes it a little more real for him, if that makes sense," she said, glancing back at him as she opened the front door and headed inside.

"I'm sure it does," Dean muttered under his breath as he closed the door behind him, still not buying into the whole miracle aspect of his healing. It had to be something else. God had never done anything for him before, why start now?

"Roy, you have a visitor!" Sue Ann called out as she led Dean through a small entry way and down a hall, through a kitchen area, and into the living room. "Please, have a seat, Dean. Would you like anything to drink? We've got iced tea, water..."

"Um, yeah, tea's fine," he replied, though he wasn't thirsty at all.

"Roy!" Sun Ann called out again, and it wasn't long before the white-haired man appeared from the doorway on the opposite side they had come in on.

Dean immediately stood to his feet as Roy reached a hand out, and shook it. "Mr. LeGrange-"

"Now, now. Roy will do just fine," the older man stated and cut him off. "So, how are you holding up? How do you feel?"

Dean stared at his hands for a moment before answering. "I, uh, feel fine, actually. Just trying to make sense of what happened."

"The Lord happened, son," Roy replied, a toothy grin easing up the corners of his mouth.

Dean wanted to scoff at the response, but held back the action. He, instead, placed the fake smile back on his face and nodded.

"It truly was a miracle," Sue Ann chimed in as she poured three glasses of iced tea. "Miracles tend to happen a lot around Roy nowadays."

"When exactly did all those miracles start?" Dean asked, his eyes on the blind man before him, but his ears trained on the sound of the glass hitting wood as Sue Ann sat it down on the coffee table in front of him.

"About a year ago, I suppose. Woke up one morning stone blind. Doctors said I had cancer; maybe a month or so left. It wasn't long before I drifted into a coma. As you can see, I woke up, and the cancer was gone. Did leave it's mark though," he said and removed his glasses for a moment. "Other than the blindness, I've been fine ever since. It wasn't too long after, that's when the miracles started."

"And he's done numerous ones since," his wife stated, pleasant smile still pulled across her thin lips.

Dean nodded, taking in Roy's words. He hesitated for a moment, then, finally opened his mouth. "I just have one last question."

"Sure, anything," Roy said with a nod, hands folded neatly in his lap.

"Why me?" and Dean truly was puzzled by this. Out of all the people there, surely there was someone better—some one more deserving than him.

Roy's smile grew warmer, more understanding. "Well son, as I said before, the Lord allows me to look into people's hearts, and something about yours stood out from all the rest."

Dean stared at him, intrigued by his answer. "What exactly did you see?"

"A young man with an important purpose, and a job to do. And it isn't quite finished yet."

Those words resonated in Dean's ears as he said his goodbyes and made his way back to the Impala. What true purpose did he have? Being a hunter? Perhaps, but it wasn't like he was the only hunter in the world. There were plenty of others (_plenty better than me_); it wasn't like he was the _only_ one saving people.

He sat there for a moment, the wind trying but being unsuccessful in its attempt to rock the heavy, metallic Impala. It was the sound of another engine turning that roused him from his thoughts. He glanced up into the rear-view mirror and saw that there had been a black truck parked about two car lengths behind him in the muddy parking lot. He didn't think much about it until he saw that it had Kansas license plates on it.

An eyebrow quirked in interest, and a part of him couldn't help but wonder...

_Dad?_

He couldn't see the driver—they were just a dark, shadowed figure gradually growing smaller behind him. With little hesitation, he quickly turned the keys in the ignition, Led Zeppelin's _When the Levee Breaks_ blaring loudly through the Impala's speakers. Dean paid no heed to the music or the fact that it was hurting his ears; he was too busy focused on the driver of the truck and catching up with them.

His heart started to pound in his chest (_thumpthumpthump), _and the hair on the back of his neck stood on quickly put the car in reverse and began to follow the F-150 that was now little more than a speck on his windshield.

Memories sped past his eyes faster than he could recollect, images of his father's hand connecting with his face. The harder he pressed on the gas, the quicker they seemed to flash across his vision. He went further and further back, back to his very first hunting trip (the memory had haunted him for years and he suppressed a shudder at the thought), all the way until he was four and his father was smiling (he'd stopped with that after the fire, unless he was drunk, of course, and it wasn't real then anyway, more haunted and calculating than anything).

His vision had become blurry and he was confused as to why. Now wasn't the time or place for tears, was it? No, it wasn't. His father had left him bandaged, broken, and alone in a motel room in the middle of nowhere without even a note or a reason. He'd just abandoned him, and Dean wanted to know why. Was he not good enough to hunt with anymore? Was he that much of a failure? Was he truly that much of a burden?

He'd almost caught up with the truck when it slowed down and pulled over into a nearby gas station, a man stepping out of it that very obviously wasn't his father. His hair was white and thinning, and he was short and stout, nothing at all like the tall, athletic build of John.

Dean let out a sigh, and slowed down the car, feeling more than foolish for his actions. Of course, his father wouldn't be there. What was he thinking? That the man would actually just show up like that? Out of nowhere? Why? Because he'd been lying on death's door, all but ready for the banshee to wail and whisk his soul away?

His brow narrowed and he couldn't help but feel angry at himself. He was an idiot.

All the times that his father had told him such, and he'd tried to shake it off, tell himself that it wasn't true, but who was he kidding? He was an idiot, and always would be.

**A/N- Thank you all so much for being so patient with me. I haven't had hardly any time to update this story due to my ridiculous work schedule (gotta pay the bills though, right?). HUMOUNGOUS THANKS to every single one of you lovely people including kissacazador, CrazyDreamin, dandy44, HPSmallCharm29, Glades of Grey, babyreaper, MysteryMadchen, renniespice, Love Me Like Sunday, M J Azilem, Sesshomaru-gal, Guest, Belle, Amira Wayne, Jesssy, PercephoneLynn, and the many others that have taken the time to read this story, favorite it, or watch it. I seriously can't thank you all enough, and hope this chapter sufficed. Don't know if I'll get another one out before Christmas, so just in case, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukah, Happy Kwanza, and whatever else you might be celebrating! :) **


	12. Freedom

**The Illusionist Part II**

**Chapter 12 : Freedom**

Dean took in a deep breath and rolled over, tugging the covers up around his shoulder and burying himself in them. He closed his eyes, but he already knew that no matter how warm or almost comfortable he got, he wasn't going to be able to sleep.

_I'm sorry..._

_For what?_

_Marshall Hall, the swimmer, he, uh, he died at 4:17. _

_Wait, hold on a minute... He died...to save me? _

_Dean-_

_You never should've brought me here, Sam!_

_I was just trying to save your life. I didn't know..._

_Yeah, but now some guy's dead because of me..._

The words echoed through his head, and no matter what he did, he just couldn't let it go. Another person died so that he could live.

He was right.

_He_ was right. When did that ever happen?

He was right about it being a reaper too.

Dean couldn't help but wonder if this was just some sort of fluke. He'd been healed; he could hear again; and he was suddenly right about every damned thing. If only his father could see him now. Hell, the man wouldn't know what to think.

The night's events flashed through his mind, and he rolled over again, clenching the covers tighter in his hands.

At least, they had saved someone, but at what cost?

Roy had been in the middle of healing someone, had almost done it too, and even though Dean had managed to stop it, it didn't hurt any less. He and Sam had saved one person, but more than likely, the person that Roy was going to heal was going to die.

Guilt gnawed at his gut, and finally, he gave up and surrendered to the fact that his mind wasn't going to get a pass to the courtyard of dreams tonight. He threw the covers off of him, the chilly air easily seeping through his sweatpants that had seen better days, and the thready long-sleeved t-shirt that had covered his thin frame.

He glanced over at Sam who was somehow managing to sleep (or becoming too damned good at pretending), and pulled on his socks and sneakers.

If he couldn't sleep, he figured he might as well do the next best thing.

Train.

He was a bit rusty anyway, and some cool night air just might do him some good.

Dean pulled on his hoodie (Sam's old hoodie), and grabbed the motel key off the stand. He glanced back at Sam one last time before he pulled the hood over his head and quietly snuck out of the motel room, silently closing the door behind him.

The sky was pitch black, dotted with stars that twinkled as the old lullaby his mother used to sing to him had claimed. The air was freezing, but he didn't care. It was just more motivation for him to keep moving. He started off slow, jogging at an easy pace before he started to push himself to go faster and faster.

His feet pounded on the pavement of side streets until he finally made it to the outskirts of town. The blacktop soon transformed into dirt and gravel and he kept going, further and further away from the motel—from everything.

His heart beat pounded in his ears as he ran faster and faster, as though he were being chased by the demons of his past. Though the earth was mostly silent, there were still tiny noises here and there that didn't go unnoticed. A train whistle blew in the not too far distance, and it wasn't long before it was followed with the sound of its wheels chugging across the tracks.

Sweat rolled down his brow, soaked his chest and back. Puffs of air rolled from between his lips, visible in the late night chill. His legs were aching, but he couldn't help be happy at the thought. God, he missed this. For the first time in a long while, he didn't feel so trapped, so enclosed.

He felt free—for a little while anyway.

It wasn't long though, before the guilt that he had become so familiar with began to rear its ugly head once more.

A blond-headed woman's face flashed before his eyes—it was the woman that Roy was going to heal that night, and it was his fault that it wasn't going to happen.

_No, it was Sue Anne's. Not yours, there's nothing that could've been done._

He felt his jaw clench automatically at the lie he was telling himself. That poor girl was going to die, and it _was_ his fault. They could've saved her somehow.

There was always a somehow.

_Always._

He sped up, feeling the rocks and pebbles and gravel kick up under his feet. His lungs were thirsting for air, but he'd stopped listening to them half a mile ago.

They may have caught Roy's wife, but that didn't change anything.

Seven people were dead, and numerous more filled with false hope.

_Bang up job you did there, boy. Really know how to save people. After all these years, and you're still letting 'em die._

A noise escaped Dean's throat that he wasn't quite sure he had ever heard before, even when he was younger. The closest thing that he could've probably compared it to was that of a wounded animal about to be put down, but hell, no sound like that would ever come out of Dean Winchester's throat.

Never in a million years.

He was stronger than that. He _needed _to be stronger than that anyway.

And _no, _those were not tears; it was sweat. Just a little sweat burning his eyes. Nothing more. Because real men didn't cry did they? Of course not. No, they didn't.

Not according to John...

_His father was in his face again, shouting and screaming, and Dean just stared at his mouth, trying to differentiate his words, but he just couldn't make them out. The only thing he knew was that his father was pissed, and his already black and blue skin was about to get a hell of a lot blacker and bluer. _

_He could feel the man's breath, hot and reeking of whiskey, on his skin and Dean knew that alcohol mixed with his father's already volatile behavior was a horrible combination. He swallowed back the saliva that was gathering in his mouth, and tried to take a step back, only to have John step forward, face reddening all the more. _

_Dean continued at his attempt to understand what his father was saying, but John's lips were moving too fast—too quick. The next thing he knew, his father's hands were on him, grabbing him by his shoulders and slamming him up against the wall. He felt the air leave his lungs instantly and pain travel up and down his spine. Little pieces of plaster fell on his hands, and he cringed as he felt more rain down upon his skin as John slammed him again and again. _

_The last time, his head hit the wall, and he felt his father's fingers squeeze tighter at his bones and clothing. John didn't exactly have nails, but what little he did have—Dean could feel them curving crescents into his flesh. _

_He knew the words, "I'm sorry, sir," were forming on his lips, but he honestly wasn't sure if they were making it out of his throat at the moment. But really, it didn't matter._

_His father didn't care how sorry he was, or what he could do to rectify the situation—the man only wanted to cause pain. _

_And that he did. _

_It wasn't long before he felt the four knuckles of his father's right hand slam into his stomach, and he couldn't help but try to double over, though the action was fruitless; John was holding him up firmly against the wall with his other hand, mouth still moving a mile a minute._

_The next hit was to his ribs, and the pain that followed was immediate. Dean was no doctor, but he'd had enough cracked and broken ribs in his time to know at least one of his bones was probably damaged. John wasn't the biggest of men, but he wasn't small either. He had at least forty pounds of muscle more on him than his son, and Dean could feel the strength behind each new blow that came at him. _

_One to his jaw, and hitting the bone was especially easy now since there was hardly anything aside from skin separating it from John's fist. Another hit to his nose. The blow to his temple would've knocked him to his knees, but his father's hand was still clamped around his shoulder, digging into his collarbone as he continued to hold him upright. Dean sagged and his body went limp for a moment, stars and a bright white light flashed underneath his eyelids. _

_It was then that he could feel his father shaking him, grip now solely on his collar, and Dean tried to open his eyes, but he was just so damned tired now..._

_A hit to his chest snatched him from his reverie, and his eyes snapped open. He saw John's fist coming towards him once more, and prepared for the hit, but it never came. He clenched his jaw and swallowed, the taste of blood fresh on his tongue. It took a moment, but he finally allowed himself to look up and into his father's eyes, and what he found there scared him._

_John was just staring at him, face red, brows narrowed, chest heaving, and raised hand shaking in the air where it was frozen—but for a split second, he looked horrified. Absolutely horrified, and all Dean could wonder was what he had done now. _

"_Go clean yourself up."_

_Dean could just barely make out the words, but he had and was thankful when his father finally released his iron grip on him. _

_John abruptly turned away and stumbled over to one of the beds. Dean watched him sit down, and put his head in his hands. He stood there for a moment, the urge to listen to his father and go straight to the bathroom only make the fact that his legs were slowly finding their footing worse, and before he knew it, he was standing in front of John. Wincing and unable to hear the low hiss that escaped his lips, he leaned over and put his hand on the other man's shoulder. _

"_Dad?" he pushed the word out between his bruised and broken lips._

_He honestly didn't know why he felt the need to see if the man was okay, because his father wasn't okay and hadn't been for a long time. But he still cared about him. He was his father, after all._

_A voice in the back of his told him he shouldn't, but he didn't listen to it._

_He never did. _

_Instead, he watched with sadness in his eyes as his father took hold of the wrist that Dean had placed ever so gently on his shoulder and squeezed it. He could only presume that his father had started yelling again, especially when he started pointing towards the bathroom, but Dean was still focused on his eyes and the fact that he was pretty damned sure they were watery. _

_When he didn't obey, his father shoved him away, and Dean tried to retain his balance but it just wasn't possible. He fell to the dirty, carpeted floor below, landing hard on his side. He grimaced, a new wave of pain shooting through his hip bone as it connected with the hard surface. His body was starting to shake, exhaustion falling over him as he pushed himself back up onto his feet. He dared not look at his father as he walked passed him, grabbed his clothes, and went into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him. _

_The mirror mocked him from the wall as soon as he flipped the light switch on. He tried to ignore it as he pulled off his green button-up shirt, and the black t-shirt underneath. Forced his eyes to the floor as he pulled off his boots and socks. He stumbled then, dizziness causing him to sway and almost lose his balance. He held onto the sink, clenching the white porcelain so hard, his hands looked as if they were about to break. He took in a deep breath, and steadied himself, blinking as his vision returned to normal. _

_That's when he noticed the blood that was dripping into the sink, the red substance dark and contrasting greatly with the pure white surface it fell on. Confusion wracked his brain until he let his gaze be entranced by the mirror._

_His nose was bleeding, a small trickle still oozing down his philtrum, lips, and chin. But the blood didn't scare him. Hadn't in a long time. It wasn't as though it was anything new. However, the fact that the white part of his left eye was nothing but red did. His best guess was that it was a result of the blow to the temple, and he reasoned, maybe that was why his father had stopped. _

_Maybe._

He _had_ been running, hell, running his ass off, but now, he was frozen where he stood, eyes wide and searching. Dean wasn't sure when he'd stopped, but all he knew is that the ground was suddenly vibrating violently.

And then, he realized where he was.

His head jerked in the direction of the train that was heading straight for him, horn blaring repeatedly in his ears.

He saw the smoke pouring from the front car, billowing up into the cold, dark night. Sweat dripped from his thin frame onto the black tracks below, but it went unnoticed.

His breath was caught in his throat, no sound emanating from his mouth. He was frozen, in shock, unable to do anything but stand there and stare, wide-eyed at the monster coming for him.

_Move._

The tracks trembled harder as the locomotive came ever closer, so close he could almost see the conductor, and Dean was sure the person was horrified. Hell, he would've been too if he was steering a twenty-car train and there was some lunatic standing put on the tracks, immobile like a deer caught in headlights.

_Move!_

Thirty feet...twenty feet...and yet, he was still standing there, sneakers glued to the metal below.

"Dammit, I said move!" And at that moment, Dean realized two things : One, the voice that he thought he'd been imagining was real; and two, getting hit by a train didn't hurt nearly as bad as he thought it would.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Sam sat bolt upright in the bed, sweat soaking his sleep clothes through. His gaze immediately traveled to Dean's bed only to find it empty. "Dammit, Dean," he cursed, running a shaking hand through his brown mane. It was then that he felt something warm running down his face. At first, he thought it was more sweat, running its course down the planes of his face, but as he wiped it away, he saw that the substance wasn't clear. He hurriedly switched on the light, and found that the unknown liquid was indeed blood, streaming from his nose.

He hadn't noticed how badly his head was hurting him either until he tried to stand and almost fell back down to the bed. His vision blurred as he tried once again to get to his feet, but he ignored it, and managed to stumble into the bathroom.

He grabbed the bleached white towel from its rung and held it to his nose as he took in his appearance. His hair was disheveled, his nose was still obviously bleeding, and, much to his horror, he saw that the blood vessels in his left eye had popped, leaving the sclera a nice shade of crimson.

The dream—the vision—flashed vividly before his eyes, and Sam just wanted it all to stop.

He hated that his brother had to go through that—especially while it was happening, he was off at college, pretending (for the most part) that Dean didn't exist.

The bleeding halted after a few minutes, but he couldn't stop staring at his eye.

Every blow, every punch—he felt them all, and didn't want to imagine that Dean probably had to feel them everyday.

Every single damned day.

Anger churned in Sam's gut, and even though his body was still shaking, he assured himself that it couldn't have been from anything other than anger.

Tears burned in his eyes, and he fought back the urge to punch the mirror into a million tiny pieces. He continued to contemplate the action the more he thought about what their father had done to Dean.

And even through it all—after being beaten and bloodied—his brother still had to check on their father, just to make sure the bastard was alright.

Sam could hold back no longer.

His fist connected with the glass in front of him, shattering his image and breaking it apart. The rage that he felt numbed the pain momentarily, because he could see the blood, pouring from his now broken skin, but he didn't care.

He punched the mirror again and again until the majority of it was laying in the sink, and the flesh of his knuckles was split six ways to hell. Even through that, he still felt the need to destroy more—hell, anything. He wanted to scream and shout until his voice was all but lost, but he didn't. Not exactly anyway.

He did scream, not giving a rat's ass if it woke up the people in the room next to him or not. He honestly didn't give a fuck. But he couldn't keep it in anymore. If Dean wasn't going to do it, then he would.

He found himself pushing their belongings off the counter of the sink—and guilt immediately struck him as a bottle of Dean's shampoo fell to the white linoleum, the cap breaking apart and the contents splattering to the floor.

"Shit!" he cursed, reaching down to clean up the mess when suddenly, another vision flashed before his eyes.

_It was dark, and there was Dean, standing in the middle of nowhere on a set of train tracks. Trees surrounded the area, their trunks highlighted by the headlights of the oncoming locomotive. _

_It was then that Sam could feel the ground shaking and hear the train's horn blaring, so loud it was hurting his ears. And that's when he realized just how close it was coming to Dean._

_But Dean wasn't moving._

_He was frozen, standing stock still on the tracks, feet planted firmly on the ground. Sam could see the expression on his face from where he was, fear, shock, and wonderment gracing his visage._

_Closer and closer the train rambled on, and yet his brother continued to stand there, unmoving, frozen like a statue. _

_Thirty feet..._

_Twenty feet... _

_Ten feet..._

Sam gasped as he was pulled from the harrowing vision, breath momentarily taken from him. He left the shampoo where it was, forcing himself up and to his feet. His head continued to throb, pain pulsing down his temples and the back of his neck as he raced out of the bathroom, and in search of Dean's keys.

He grabbed them from their resting place on the nightstand, and pulled on his shoes and jacket and hurried out the door.

He was in the Impala before he knew it, engine roaring as he pulled out of the parking lot and out onto the street.

_Think, Sam. Railroad tracks...railroad tracks...railroad tracks..._

They'd come across them on their way into town—he remembered now. He immediately felt deflated though, because Dean could have been anywhere on them.

_Thinkthinkthink_

He clenched his jaw, and allowed himself to let the vision come back and invade his mind, searching for anything—any type of damned clue—that would give him an answer.

There was Dean again, standing there, surrounded by trees, train heading straight for him. There was a gravel road nearby, raising up as it reached the tracks.

_Street sign, there was a street sign! What was it? What was it?!_

It was there, right before the gravel road met the tracks...

_Castle Lane! That's it! We passed it on the way to Roy's!_

Sam knew he didn't have much time—hell, he wasn't even sure if it already hadn't happened yet—no, he wouldn't allow himself to think that. He was going to make it.

He _was_.

He sped up, sending the Impala roaring through the darkness, and hopefully, venturing towards his brother.

His vision blurred for a moment, but he didn't let it stop him. He retraced the route back to Roy's and through the twists and turns of the road he was on, he caught a glimpse of the tracks and felt his heart speed up because he knew he was close now.

Then he heard it—the train's horn.

His heard pounded in his chest as he finally came to the crossroads, and standing before him was Dean, staring straight ahead at the black metallic monster that was barreling towards him.

Sam jerked the car to a stop, and threw open the door. "Dean!" he called out his brother's name, but to no avail. Dean's eyes looked glazed—lost—as though he was in a trance.

"Dean, move!" he screamed, running as fast as he could towards his brother, and yet nothing still. "Move!" he repeated, feet pounding against the gravel. "Dammit, I said move!" and before Sam knew it, he had crashed into his brother, propelling them both off the tracks just before the train stormed by where Dean had just been standing.

They landed hard on the other side, rolling and tumbling until finally coming to a stop on more gravel and dirt.

Dean was the first to sit up. "Sammy?" he asked, blinking owlishly as he tried to make sense of what just happened.

Sam groaned and sat up. It felt like someone was driving nails into his skull, it hurt so badly, but he still managed to get to his feet before his brother. The worry that had consumed him earlier had now transformed into anger, and he couldn't stop himself from pulling Dean up by the collar.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Dean? You almost got yourself killed!" he found himself shouting, letting the words escape his lips before he knew what he was saying.

All Dean could do was stare at him, eyes wide and questioning. "Sammy?" he asked, concern in his voice.

"Don't Sa—Ah!" Sam grunted, his grip on Dean loosening a bit as the pain in his head throbbed like a merciless drum beat. "Don't 'Sammy' me, Dean," he forced himself to speak through grit teeth, regaining some of his composure.

"Sammy..." and Dean's voice trailed off, worried eyes looking up and into his little brother's. "Your eye...and you're—you're bleeding." The slight hint of fear that had been glimmering in his gaze was gone, replaced now with defiance and concern. "Sammy, what's wrong with you?" he asked, cords pulling in his neck. Then, "How did you know I was here?"

The brunette stared at him, anger still running rampant across his features, though he kept his mouth shut.

"Talk to me, Sam," Dean ordered, but the command was weak. "How did you know I was here?" he repeated, eyes wide and searching.

Before he could answer, the pain in his head got the better of him. Sam fell to his knees, Dean coming down with him.

"Sammy, what's wrong?" Dean inquired worriedly, hands instantly clasping Sam's face.

"My head—it's...it hurts," the brunette ground out, the feeling of something warm sliding down his lip returning.

"Sam!"

And then there was darkness.

S*P*N*S*P*N

The minute Sam opened his eyes, Dean's voice invaded his ears. "How you feelin', little brother?" Gradually, Sam blinked away the slightly blurred vision and managed to focus on Dean. There were bags underneath his eyes, and dark circles there too. "Sam?" He'd changed out of his training clothes, and was dressed in his usual layered attire; baggy jeans and a light gray henley underneath a blue, long-sleeved button up.

"Head still hurts a bit, but other than that, I think I'm okay," Sam finally answered, sitting up. Dean handed him a bottle of juice which he took gratefully. His throat was dry; his tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth.

"You good enough to talk? 'Cause we really need to," Dean stated, big brother mode initiated and operating at full capacity.

"Yeah, I think so," Sam answered, letting his gaze drift to the flowery comforter he was laying on top of. Man, his hand really hurt.

"Sammy, how in the hell did you know where I was at?" The question wasn't spoken in an angry tone, just curious and gentle one; and for some reason that scared Sam.

"I-I just did," came the quick response. He immediately started to fidget with the label on the juice bottle, his gaze falling on just about everything but his brother.

"You and I both know that's a bullshit answer. C'mon, Sammy, don't lie to me," and God, if his voice didn't sound cracked and worn and sad. Sam really hated him sometimes, but not in a bad way, of course. Just in the _how-do-you-always-get-me-to-tell-the-truth-but-I-can-never-get-it-out-of-you _way.

Sam sighed and continued to pick at the bottle's label. He felt ten years old again. "I-uh-I saw it," was the only answer he gave. He glanced at Dean, then back down at the comforter. They'd stayed in some ugly hotels rooms before, but this had to be one of the worst, Sam thought.

Dean leaned forward from his perch on the adjacent bed, an incredulous expression on his face. "You _saw_ it. Um, care to elaborate there, Sam?" he asked, brow narrowing in confusion.

Sam quirked his lips to one side, contemplating the best answer to Dean's question. He was going to sound crazy regardless of what he said, he figured, so the truth was the best option. "I-I had a vision, if you want to call it that. You were standing there on the train tracks, and...let's just say the outcome of it was much different..."

Dean stood up, and folded his arms across his chest, mind racing a mile a minute. Sam could always tell when his brother was figuring something out. His eyes moved back and forth rapidly for all of four or five seconds, and his lips moved silently; barely noticeable to anyone but the youngest Winchester, of course.

"So when you passed out a few weeks back—you'd had a vision then?" the inquiry came swiftly and curiously, and Sam could suddenly feel heat on his cheeks.

He nodded, and continued to toy with the label. It was the best distraction he could come up with at the moment, because he really didn't want to to see what was more than likely a hurt look on his brother's face.

"And?" Dean prodded, turning back around to face his little brother. When Sam didn't reply, he continued on. "So basically, every time you've complained about having a headache, you've been having these visions." He was quiet for a moment, swallowing thickly before going on. "Were they all about me?"

"Dean-"

"Don't lie to me, Sammy. I can already hear the bullshit you're getting ready to spout, so why don't you just tell me the truth. It's the least you could do." And then he was silent, his voice hovering on the edge of breaking.

Sam clenched his jaw and couldn't help but roll his eyes, still feeling like he was a child being interrogated on whether or not he had stuck his hand in the cookie jar. Anger teased his tongue. "Yes, Dean. Every single damned time—they were about you," he spat, sitting straight up on the bed now.

"Sa-"

The youngest Winchester kept going, fully knowing that he was about to make an ass of himself. "They started about two months ago, not too long after we started our little 'road trip'. The first time it happened, I prayed that it had just been a really bad dream or that I was just imagining things, but as we all know, the Winchester clan just isn't that lucky. And they've continued to grow worse. In fact," Sam started, a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he finally locked gazes with Dean (and damn him if his brother's eyes weren't two big glimmering pools of green), "The majority of them are about what Dad's done to you." He swung his feet over the bed, and stood, glare cast across his visage. "One of the last one's I had—I saw how he beat you to the floor and yet you still asked _him—him—_if he was okay." His chest was heaving up and down now, and his hands transforming into fists at his side. All the while Dean was just standing there, looking up at him with fear, embarrassment, and tears in his eyes.

"Well, I'm sorry you had to go through that," and Sam just wanted to put his hands over his ears and never hear how sincerely hurt, sad, and sorry his brother actually sounded.

"Stop apologizing!" the taller of the two shouted, voice making Dean stop dead in his tracks as he was attempting to walk away. Sam didn't miss the way his shoulders tensed and his entire body shook at his raised voice. God, he really hated himself sometimes. "Don't you see how wrong all of that was, Dean?" and before Sam knew it, he had spun his brother around. "He hurt you! Almost killed you half a dozen times, and yet, you don't even seem the least bit angry about it! How can you not be? How?" Sam demanded, spittle flying from his lips as he yelled.

"Shut up," Dean murmured, gaze dropping to the floor. He was biting his bottom lip, and Sam presumed, trying his damnedest not actually be a human and let his emotions show.

"No, I'm not going to shut up or be quiet about this! You can't hide it from me anymore, Dean! You can't keep brushing it off! He abused you!" And Dean flinched at the mere mention of the word _abuse_.

"He had to keep me in line," Dean argued, though his voice sounded so far away and lost, nothing near the fighting tone Sam had been hoping for.

"Keep you in line? Keep _you_ in line?" he repeated, brow narrowing further, tone growing angrier. "When didn't you stay in line with that man? You listened to every single damned thing he said, taking it all for gospel rather than thinking for yourself! He beat you, Dean! And parents aren't supposed to beat their children!"

Suddenly, Dean's bottom lip was teetering on the edge of quivering, and Sam could see the hot, angry tears in his eyes. "You don't know what you're talking about!" Dean tried to shout back, but there was no strength in his voice. It was shaking, and badly at that. "He did the best he could, okay?"

"The best he could?" Sam scoffed back. "My, God, Dean, do you even realize what you're saying half the time? The man beat you into a bloody pulp, and didn't even bat an eyelash over it! And you call that the best he could?"

"What was he supposed to do? Huh?" Dean asked, shrugging. "He was stuck with me, Sam! Do you know how hard it was for him to hunt with me for back-up? Do you?"

"Actually, Dean, I do. And it wasn't that hard at all. You might've been deaf, but you were more than competent. You're one of the best damn hunters I know!" And there it was, a look of disbelief so bright in Dean's eyes that a lump actually formed in Sam's throat. He hurriedly tried to choke it back down. "You do everything you can to help people and more. There's nothing wrong with you, Dean! Can't you see that?"

And it was Dean's turn to scoff at him. "When Roy healed me, he must've accidentally threw some bad mojo your way, Sammy, cause I'm pretty sure going blind."

Sam really hated what he did next.

Without thinking (which he was quite good at sometimes, only sometimes), he grabbed his brother by the shoulders and slammed him up against the wall. The way Dean's eyes widened, and the hollow of his neck more than visible when he sucked in air only made Sam feel all the worse, but he had to make his thick-headed brother see what he saw. It really didn't help that he could feel Dean's thin fingers grasping at his forearms.

"All my life, you've watched out for me. Every time I've gotten myself into a mess, you somehow managed to come along and get me out of it. Any time I needed you, Dean, you've always been there, no matter what. Does that sound like something a bad person would do?" When Dean didn't respond, he found his grip tightening, hating the way his fingers wrapped too far around his brother's arms. "All this hiding you do—this mask you put on—I see right through it, Dean! There's a damned good person in there—and a damned good brother. I love you, Dean, and I'm sick and tired of seeing you just pass yourself off like you mean nothing to anyone, because you mean something to me!

Do you know how hard it is to watch you get hurt over and over again? To watch our father—the man who was supposed to protect us from harm—punch you and kick you and make you run until you're about to drop? I mean, thank God I haven't had to see everything that happened, because I don't think I could take it. I really don't. But what I have seen? What I _have_ seen is you doing the best you could for someone that doesn't deserve that kindness. Open you're eyes, Dean. There's nothing wrong with you!"

"Yes, there is!" Dean shouted back, the cords in his throat bulging as he raised his voice. There were still tears in his eyes, but none had fallen over the edge.

Yet.

"There is plenty wrong with me, Sammy!" he exclaimed, voice standing on shaky ground. "I'm slow, I'm clumsy, I get in the way-"

"No, Dean, you aren't and you don't!" And he shook his older brother once more, and he could feel Dean tense underneath his fingertips.

"And you call me thick-headed," Dean mumbled, shaking his head and glancing away for a moment. After a few seconds, he looked back up at Sam. "How can you not see it?" he asked, shaking his head. "How can you not see that I did deserve all that? All that and fucking more, Sammy! I've screwed up more times than I can count! Hell, if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even be here now! You'd be happy, and on your way to becoming some hot shot lawyer! Face it, Sam, all I've done is drag you down, and that's all I'm gonna keep doing!"

Sam opened his mouth to retort, but stopped himself short. Dean appeared on the verge of hyperventilation; his face was red and splotchy, and his breath was coming out short and fast.

"Dean," he said, and his voice was quiet, gentle. "Whether you realize it or not, you're slowly killing yourself because of Dad. He's hurt you in ways no father should ever hurt their son, and he's put a tremendous amount of pressure on you that most men twice your age wouldn't be able to handle. But somehow, you have. Just once, open up your eyes, and stop listening to that man. See yourself for who you really are, Dean, and not this—this piece of garbage Dad's made you out to be."

"But-" and his voice truly was trembling now. "It is what I am, Sammy." A tear escaped his hold and rolled silently down his cheek. "That's what I am, and always have been. Even to you," he added quietly, shrugging out of his little brother's grasp.

"Dean-"

"Just remember—you left. You discarded me like I was nothing, and left me with him. And eventually, he got sick of taking care of this piece of trash, and he left too. So save your 'you're the best brother in the world' bullshit, and quit worrying about me, cause I'm not." His words hung throughout the air as he grabbed his jacket that was draped across one of the motel chairs.

"One day, Dean..."

He was almost at the door when he turned back around, gaze on the floor before traveling back towards his little brother. "Yeah, save it, Sam. Just save it," and with that, he exited the room, leaving the brunette alone with his thoughts and a blossoming headache.

**A/N – Once again, apologies for the long wait. I still can't thank you all enough for sticking with this story for so long. MANY THANKS to HPSmallCharm29, dandy44, babyreaper, Glades of Grey, weedom, renniespice, Sarah, MysteryMadchen, M J Azilem, kissacazador, CrazyDreamin', melitta4ever, and all those that have favorited this story or are following it. Thank you all again so much, and I hope the chapter sufficed.**


	13. Seven Devils

**The Illusionist II **

**Chapter 13 : Seven Devils**

**Warnings: Torture and language**

Slowly, Dean regained consciousness, and damn, if his head wasn't killing him. Being whacked in the skull with a frying pan looked hilarious on TV, but it sure didn't feel all that hilarious now. Though he couldn't touch it, he was pretty sure there was a knot there now, and a whole lot of dried blood, because head wounds always bled like crazy.

And the chore of getting that caked crimson out of his hair wasn't going to be buckets full of fun either.

He took in a deep breath, instantly regretting the action. The odor in the air was almost to the point of being unbearable, and it wasn't long before the bile in his stomach threatened to escape his throat. He was positive that the residents of the house probably hadn't bathed in years, or quite possibly, had never heard of the new found invention called a shower.

No, they couldn't have.

The smell of rotten flesh invaded his nostrils, and he wondered briefly if perhaps poor Fido had never made it out for his last walk.

He could feel his hands, tied behind his back, the fibers of the rope digging into his flesh, making tiny cuts in the pale skin there as he tugged at them and tugged at them, but to no avail.

"Best to open your eyes now, boy. We knows you're awake."

_Well, shit._

He had really hoped that his senses were just off and he didn't feel the presence of the entire Leatherhead—no, he told himself—scarily enough, this wasn't some crazy Texas Chainsaw Massacre dream he was trapped in, this was real, and their name was the Benders. On the plus side, he was pretty sure none of them were actually wearing other people's skin, not that he had seen.

Yet.

"You've got two seconds," the old man warned, and it wasn't long before his putrid breath was in Dean's face.

Dean couldn't help but gag at the smell, eyes peering open as spittle and phlegm rattled around in his mouth.

"I've got a toothbrush in my car you can have. Seriously, it's yours," Dean coughed out, trying to get his reflexes under control. It wasn't exactly easy, especially since old man Bender didn't seem to get the picture and move.

He laughed at Dean's remark instead, letting out more of the rancid air that was wheezing between his lips, and as he did so, Dean was gifted with the image of yellow and black rotted teeth, grinning right in his face. The middle Winchester hung his head, desperately trying not to vomit.

"Really, all you gotta do is let me outta these ropes, and I'll get it for you. It's a little used, but I think you're used to that sort of thing," Dean quipped, not prepared for the punch that landed across his jaw. After the white spots disappeared, he lifted his head back up, thankful that the old man had retreated a few steps, but that damned grin was still on his face. "I'll even throw in some mouth wash too," and that offer was also met with another hit from one of the old man's sons. "Fine, I get it, I'll toss in all the floss I've got too. Works wonders for getting rid of pla-" He cut himself off when the old man advanced towards him.

"You sure got a smart mouth on you, don't cha, boy?" he asked, and Dean didn't miss the dangerous gleam that streamed through his eyes when he spoke. "It'd be a shame if that tongue were to go missin'," and the threat was made clear as he held up the gutting knife Dean had seen him using when he'd originally snuck into the house.

Dean clenched his jaw, going into silent mode. He swallowed thickly, and realized just how dry his throat truly was. For the time being, it would probably be best if he didn't speak. He was good at doing that sometimes.

"Now," old man Bender started, licking his lips, "We both know why you're here. Thought you was gonna be some big hero, and come rescue the boy, did ya? Guess that didn't quite work out the way you wanted it to, huh? 'Cause you see, the boy's ours now. Fair and square, and we's gonna hunt him, just like all the others before. You see," he said, and held the bloodied knife up against Dean's cheek, "I bet a lil' young thing like you ain't never killed nobody before." And he slid the blade across Dean's skin, piercing the flesh until there was a mark about an inch long there. Blood pooled at the broken skin and slowly slid down Dean's cheek. He kept his eyes straight ahead, though they were scrunched in pain, and he wondered if somehow, maybe these idiots weren't possessed. But as the old man jerked his head back up and forced their eyes to meet, Dean knew it wasn't true. This family wasn't possessed.

They were just plain crazy.

"Depends on what you mean," Dean mumbled through his still clenched jaw, and the man laughed at him once more; his kids too.

"No, I can tell you ain't never killed nobody before, but you see, I have. I've killed and hunted many things; rabbits, deer—even once, I killed a cougar, but the best thing I've ever hunted—was a human."

Dean's blood ran cold at the man's words, and it was then that the thought flashed through his mind that he might not actually make it out of there alive.

Not this time.

"There is nothin'—and I do mean nothin'—that feels as good as when you holdin' a human life in your hands," and now his lips were close, far too close to Dean's ear.

He never thought in a million years that he'd ever wish to be deaf again, but now...he wasn't so sure.

"Now, don't get me wrong, we're fair about it. Give 'em a weapon an' all, but they always lose. _Always. _And when the light finally goes out in their eyes, and they're filled with darkness, it makes you feel mighty powerful. Powerful and alive."

Dean watched with vigilant eyes as the man took a step back from him, then another until he was standing next to the fire place. "It's sorta like a family tradition, one that I'd like not to break."

The middle Winchester could already feel the sheen of sweat that had broken out across his body even though the place felt as cold as Washington state in winter. Slowly, the droplets slid down his already bloodied forehead as he watched the old man remove an iron poker from its stand. Fear trickled up his spine as he saw the old man hold it in the flames, grin growing wider the longer he held it there. Once it was nice and hot and orange, he turned back towards Dean, eyes agleam.

"Just in case you haven't figured it out yet, we found you're lady friend—the cop. So, my question is this : Are there any more cops coming out here? Anyone else lookin' for you?" And God, did Dean hate the sound of that man's voice. It sounded too eager—too hopeful that he was going to say yes so there'd be more humans for them to hunt.

"Let me think on it, and I'll get back to you," Dean answered, automatically regretting it. One of the younger Benders immediately came to stand beside him, holding him in place where he sat.

"You think this is all a game, don't cha, son? Well, I'll tell ya right now, it's not. You've decided to bring this mess upon my family, and for that, you're gonna have to pay," and with that, Dean watched in horror as the old man brought the hot poker down on the left side of his chest, near his shoulder. The glowing iron burned right through the cotton material of his two shirts, and down to his flesh, and Dean couldn't help but cry out because of the pain. It wasn't long before the smell of his own burning flesh hit his nostrils, and the urge to vomit came back tenfold.

"See, this is what happens when all you've got is a big, fat mouth, and nothing to back it up with. Now, you gonna tell me if someone's comin' for you, or you want some more?" Old man Bender inquired, a hint of the evil grin still tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Go to hell," Dean ground out, squirming as the old man brought the hot poker down on him again; this time on his left side. "Okay! Okay, no, there's no one coming for us! No one even knows we're out here!" he shouted, pain running up and down his side.

"My, my, a pretty lil' one, you are," the old man said, and ran a dirty, calloused hand down his cheek. "Just something about the way you hurt..." and this time, he pressed the iron on the inner side of Dean's thigh. The middle Winchester continued to struggle, involuntary tears welling in his eyes from the white, hot pain. A strained cry escaped his lips, and when it did, the old man chuckled. "I might just like to keep you around for a lil' while," he said, and brought the flaming poker down on his right bicep, holding it there far longer than the three previous times. Dean tried his damnedest not to let the scream befall his lips, but it did anyway. He could feel the blood running down his fingers as the rope cut further and further into his wrists as he tried desperately to pull them apart, though still to no avail.

The older man hooped and hollered at the young hunter's reaction, an expression of what Dean could only call glee forming on the old man's wrinkled face.

"Oh, yes, we gonna have us some fun tonight," Pa Bender chuckled, reaching for the chain around his neck and pulling it off. It had the damned key Dean had been searching for before he'd been caught hanging on it.

No wonder he couldn't find it.

"Who's it gonna be that we hunt tonight, boy? Your lady friend, the cop, or the boy?" Old man Bender asked, hot poker still in hand.

Dread washed over Dean, not liking the choice he was going to be forced to make.

"You got three seconds. One, two," the old man didn't even let himself get to three before he brought the still smoldering hot iron down once more, this time on Dean's collarbone. His body convulsed involuntarily as the man let the weapon stay there until Dean finally screamed out an answer. "The guy! Take the guy!" He knew his little brother could fight those bastards off. If anyone could do it, it'd be Sam.

"Lee," the old man said, handing the key to one of his sons, "You go take care of it. Shoot the boy first, an' leave him in his cage. Then take care of the bitch once you're done with him."

Dean's eyes widened. "But you said you were gonna hunt him, that you were gonna give him a chance!" It felt like he'd been stabbed in the chest with an icepick, the cold feeling slowly beginning to encompass his entire being. This couldn't be happening. He had to find a way to get loose so he could—

His train of thought was cut off as the old man burned him again, this time on his left ear. Pa Bender's face was dark as he leaned back down in front of Dean. "We gotta clean this mess up 'fore anymore nosy cops come runnin' up here."

"But I told you," Dean said, still tugging and pulling at his binds, "There's nobody else coming! No one knows we're even here!" He couldn't fail Sammy again. Not again, dammit!

"You think we're stupid or something, son? 'Ventually, someone's gonna be wonderin' why your lady cop friend ain't reportin' for duty, an' they gonna go lookin' for her. An' I'll tell you what, they ain't gonna find nothin' of hers on my property. That's for sure. Now, where was I? Oh, that's right. Gonna make you hurt real good," he laughed, but instead of scorching Dean's skin again this time, he retrieved the knife he'd used before on Dean's cheek, this time lifting up his shirt and making a slash across the younger hunter's stomach.

"Damn you!" Dean managed through grit teeth, hating that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get his hands out of the damned rope that was confining them.

The old man chuckled at him again, slowly dragging the knife up and down Dean's side before letting the blade plunge in a little deeper, opening up the pale layers of flesh there. Dean bucked against the chair, attempting to move away from the crazed man, but his attempts were futile.

Suddenly, the sound of a gunshot went off and Dean went still.

_No! God, no...Sammy..._

There was another and then there was silence.

Dean watched as the old man stilled for a moment, before backing away from him and heading towards the open door. "Lee!" he called out, but received no reply. "Lee!" he tried again, but silence was the only reply. "Somethin's wrong," the old man mumbled, backtracking into the house. "Jared, you come with me. Missy, you stay here an' watch him. He makes a move or talks, you know what to do," the old man stated.

The dirty, blonde-haired girl nodded and grinned. "I know, Pa," she said, and damned, if she didn't have the same evil expression as her father, Dean thought. Same dirty, unbrushed teeth as well.

Once the old man and his son had headed outside, Dean realized it was just him and the girl. She couldn't have been more then eleven or twelve at the most, but she had a feral quality about her that made her seem far older than she truly was. He hoped that there was some part of her that he could reason with, but as she came closer and closer to him, bare feet making the rotted, old floorboards creak and that damned crazed grin on her face and squinted eyes sizing him up like he was gonna be her next meal, he knew he was beat.

He'd still try anyway though.

"Missy, right?" he asked, trying his best to look friendly and maybe the slightest bit hopeful. She nodded, dirty, greasy hair barely moving as she did so. "Missy, untie me and I can get you out of here. Get you away from these nutjobs, and help you get a new home. Somewhere where humans aren't considered a meal," he added, swallowing thickly at the thought.

She took a few more steps towards him, head tilted at an angle, hair hanging limply in her face. Dean almost felt bad for her until he saw the knife tightly clutched in her right hand.

"Missy, please," he pleaded, fruitlessly pulling at his binds, "Instead of using that knife to carve me like a pumpkin, why don't you just undo these ropes, and-"

"You want me to cut you out?" she asked, voice lingering just on the shrill side. Dean stared at her wide-eyed, not liking her tone. "You want me to let you go? I don't think I can do that...but," she murmured, coming to stand behind him. "I might be able to get you out of these binds...let me see," and Dean had never been so terrified of a little girl before in his life. It was less than three seconds later that he felt the blade of the knife sink into the knuckles on his left hand, crisscrossing each one as she went from one end to the other. Dean cried out in pain, and she laughed—giggled—at the sound. "Pa said this hurts the worst, so tell me—" and she went for his right hand, digging the blade in deeper, "Does it?" When he felt the metal hit bone, he couldn't choke back the scream that parted his lips. She continued to laugh until she hit the last knuckle, obviously proud of her handiwork. "I hope you stay with us forever. Pa was right, it _is_ fun to make you hurt." She stepped back around to the front of him, lips curved up big and wide into that damned devilish smile, more giggles threatening to pour from her lips.

"Maybe I could keep you in my room, an' practice on you. Make Pa proud of me," she wondered aloud, thumb inching up and down the handle of the blade, itching to get more of Dean's blood on it.

"Look kid, I'm gonna tell you something, the moment I get out of here, I'm gonna-" and before he could even finish his sentence, Missy stabbed him in the thigh, the smile still on her face.

"You ain't allowed to talk, remember?" she asked, and turned the knife, pushing it even farther into the wound.

Dean bucked against the chair, pain shooting up and down his leg, electrocuting the limb. A silent cry parted his lips, and he watched in horror as she slowly pulled the weapon out of his flesh, a millimeter at a time. Vomit teased his throat once more as she licked his blood off the knife, the crimson staining her lips and pale skin.

Dean hung his head, the dread that he had felt earlier coming back again.

Once again, another hunt gone wrong, and it was all his fault. When was Sam going to listen to him?

One minute, they were in the Kugel Keg and his little brother was complaining about how they needed to get back to the motel so they could get an early start, and Dean had reluctantly agreed before claiming the need to use the bathroom. Naturally, the middle Winchester never would've thought in a million years that while he was in there puking up the beer and fries he'd eaten earlier that Sam would've gotten snatched away from him.

If he just would've went outside with him...

Dean was snapped from his reverie by the sound of the front screen door creaking open, and Sam appearing in the doorway. "Dean!" he shouted, completely ignoring Missy and her bloody blade.

"Sammy!" the name burst from his throat. He'd never been so happy to see his little brother, and once again, was reminded that without Sam there, he would've been toast.

Literally.

"Sammy, watch out! She's trouble!" Dean warned, but Sam had already managed to disarm the girl, knocking the knife easily from her dirt-caked fingers and onto the floor. She lunged herself at him, but he picked her up, pinning her hands down in front of her. "There's a closet, back over there," Dean stated, nodding towards a hallway. Sam wordlessly followed his instructions, then after securing the girl in the closet, came back into the living room.

"Are you okay?" were the first words out of Dean's mouth. He was already checking over his brother, looking over every bit of skin that was visible (he had to make sure), just in case. When he didn't see any sign of a wound, he relaxed a little.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam answered quietly. "Can't say the same for you." And there was a hint of sadness in his voice, and Dean could help but detect what sounded like disappointment as well.

Great, Sam finally realized it. Now he saw what a fuck-up Dean truly was.

"Do they hurt?" Sam's tone was gentle; worried.

"What?" Dean asked, surprised. He was so damned glad to see his little brother that he'd managed to forget about his own wounds. Until he was completely free of his binds and on his feet, that is. He stumbled a bit, and naturally, Sam caught him, worry creasing every single line in his forehead. "Got a frying pan to the back of the head, but I feel just fine," he stated, fake, reassuring smile in place, and they both knew it.

"You might have a concussion, Dean," and there was Sam's motherly tone starting to shine through. Dean quickly ignored it and found his jacket, hurriedly sliding it on before Sam could lay eyes on all the burn holes in his clothes.

"Well, that'd be nothing new, now would it?" Dean joked, forcing the grin wider but Sam wasn't having it.

"Dean, I'm serious. How badly does it hurt?" Sam asked, and suddenly there was a gentle hand steady on the side of Dean's head. Dean immediately tried to brush his brother off, only for Sam to grab his hand, blue eyes going wide. "Shit!" Sam gasped as he held onto Dean's hand, eyes full of questions and shock. "They did this to you?" he asked, staring at the X's that were carved into his knuckles. It was then Dean saw the anger starting to surge through his little brother's jawline. The muscles underneath his skin started to clench, and Dean could see his teeth grit, so he quickly changed the subject.

"We gotta get out of here, Sammy. Before the cavalry comes," he added, handing Sam his jacket. Sam took it, worried, dangerous eyes still fixed on his brother. "Is Kathleen..."

"She was fine, last I could tell," Sam stated, following Dean as he hurried out of the house.

"Good, that's good," Dean muttered, wanting to take the steps two at a time, but deciding against it. He couldn't help it; he really wanted to get out of there. The place made his skin crawl, and he knew that if they really had gotten to Sam—well, he was pretty sure none of them would've been left standing, the girl included.

"Hey." It was Kathleen's voice. Dean jerked his head up and out of the endless train of thoughts his mind was keen to stay on.

"Hey, you okay?" he inquired, noting the gash on her forehead.

"Yeah, yeah, fine as I'll ever be," she replied, voice beginning to waver.

"Where's-"

"Dead," she replied instantly. "He tried to escape, so I shot him." They exchanged glances with one another before she added, "State police and the FBI are going to be here within the hour, and they're going to want to talk, so if I were you, I'd be long gone by then." She had tears in her eyes, and a pained smile on her face, and Dean automatically knew that she'd gotten the answer she'd came there for : Her brother was dead, another one of those monsters' victims.

"Thanks. For helping me," Dean said, a bit awkwardly. "And, I-I'm sorry about your brother."

She smiled grimly and looked away. "At least I know the truth now. I thought it would feel better knowing, but...it doesn't." She sniffled and put on her best about face. "Best to get going. Duck if you see a squad car."

Dean nodded, and walked away; Sam following in tow.

"No more disappearing on me," Dean stated, once they were a little ways from the house. He was walking in front of his little brother, one hand pressed against his side where the crazed bastard had cut him. The wound wasn't all that deep, but it hurt like a bitch. Hell, all of him was hurting like a bitch at the moment.

Sam scoffed, coming to walk next to him. "It's not like I planned it or anything," he replied, hands at his sides, tense and eager, like he was just waiting for his older brother to be in need of his help.

"Still," Dean continued on, "Just...don't let it happen again." And as much as he'd tried to make his tone teasing, it came out deflated and sad.

Dean had been abandoned three times in his life. The first, when his mother was consumed by the flames of their burning house. She didn't come back.

The second, when his father left him alone and confused in a motel room in the middle of nowhere with keys to the Impala and freshly wrapped bandages on wounds that had been gaping for far too long. He wondered now if he'd ever see the man again.

The third—the third had been nearly twenty-four hours previous; luckily for him, Sam didn't go anywhere. Or rather, he had, but Dean had been lucky enough to find him.

"Dean," Sam started, walking in front of his brother and blocking his path. "Can you hold on a minute? You know, you never did even let me look at your head."

Dean tensed up the moment Sam tried to put his hands anywhere near him. He didn't need to be taken care of. Didn't deserve it. "I'm fine, Sammy. If I wasn't, I wouldn't be walking. Besides, 's not like you can see a thing out here in the dark anyway," he added, eyes dropping down to the ground.

"If you so much as stumble, I'll-"

"You'll what?" Dean inquired sharply, eyes darting up to meet his brother's. "Throw me over your shoulder and carry me back to the car? Not gonna happen, little brother. I'm just fine, so now that we've come to that conclusion, you can kindly move the hell out of my way, and we can get on with our merry journey."

"Dean-"

"What?!" And the word came just a little too sharply from his lips. He could see the hurt that infiltrated Sam's visage, and instantly regretted the action.

"Nothing. Never mind," and suddenly, Sam was five paces ahead of him and the distance between them was only growing farther and farther until Sam had all but disappeared amongst the trees.

"Dammit," Dean spat, forcing his legs to become mobile once more. The faster he moved, the worse his left leg felt; the burn on his thigh continuously brushing up against the material of his jeans with each step. It also didn't help that there was a stab wound just inches below the burn either. He grit his teeth as his exhausted and battered body pushed forward. His hands were killing him, and he couldn't help but keep his left arm close as the burn mark there felt raw, pain radiating up through his nerves and throughout his entire body.

He couldn't even bring himself to think about the other wounds—the other places he was burned and bleeding—because he knew that would just make it worse. However, he was pretty damned good at making things worse.

He wasn't quite sure how far they'd gone when he realized he was limping, and as he glanced down at his injured limb, he saw the blood stain that was spreading on his jeans. "Shit," he muttered, and it was then that the numbness from the cold wore off temporarily and he could feel the blood sliding down his leg. The damned thing had never even stopped bleeding, and he'd been too irritated to care. He glanced up only to see that Sam wasn't even in his line of sight anymore, and that fact made his heart thump a little too loudly in his chest.

Instead of calling out for him like he knew he should have (because there was a tiny part of him that whined quietly in his ear that it was actually okay to get a little help every now and then, but then again, maybe he'd just been listening to way too much Joe Cocker lately), he decided to rip a piece of his t-shirt off (thankfully it was thin enough, because he wasn't as strong as he used to be) and wrap it around the wound. Once he was satisfied that it was tight enough, he soldiered on, boots dragging over cracked and dead leaves laying on the forest floor.

When his vision began to blur, even doubling every minute or so, he tried to shake it off, but it continued to grow worse until almost every inch of his sight had turned to shadows and darkness. He could just barely make out his breath spiraling before him when the dizziness overtook him, sending him down to his knees. Pain raced through his knuckles as he tried to keep himself upright, the skin pulling tight and gaping as he spread them flat across the earth's leafy floor.

God, he was pathetic.

"Sam!" he tried to yell, but it came out weak and barely audible. His head was spinning dangerously now, and he was freezing, his whole body shaking as he attempted to push himself up, only to fall back down again, face first. He groaned, pain shooting through his hipbones as they made contact with the hard dirt. He laid there for a moment, telling himself that he just needed to rest for a minute or so, then he'd get up, but as one minute became two, and two became three, he could feel his eyes wanting to stay shut.

Just as he was about to give in and allow sleep to claim him, he heard the crunching of leaves as the sound of footsteps grew closer. "Took you long enough," he muttered, cracking open an eye, but instead of finding Sam above him, he found his father instead. "Dad?" he asked, the exhaustion starting to fade as his heartbeat began to speed up.

"Get up," the command came from his lips, and Dean's heart sank. There wasn't even the slightest hint that his father was even going to try and help him up.

Go figure.

"Dad?" he repeated, blurry vision focusing on the man standing above him, dark eyes appearing almost black in the cover of moonlight. "How'd you—I mean—what-"

"Get up," John commanded more forcefully this time, and added a kick to Dean's side for emphasis.

It honestly wouldn't have hurt that badly except for the fact that it landed right on the wound old man Bender had given him. Dean immediately curled up on his side, bloodied hands shooting to the cut.

"You haven't changed a goddamned bit. Get up now," John ordered, grasping a handful of Dean's hair in his hand and pulling him up off the ground.

The action only caused more pain to electrocute Dean's nerve endings and wounds, and he hung limply in his father's grasp, only managing to bring a trembling hand up to rest on his father's arm. "I'm—I'm sorry, sir," he ground out, voice teetering on the edge of pained. He tried so hard to sound okay, but he wasn't. He was a mess. A black and blue and bloodied mess.

"I should've gotten rid of you when I had the chance," John spat right into his face. "Maybe I should now." And Dean could hear how truly serious he sounded.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," Dean breathed out, lungs burning with exertion from the action. "I've been trying to be better...for Sammy. I've been trying..."

"Obviously not hard enough," John reprimanded angrily in his ear. He started to drag Dean then, and as much as Dean tried to fight it, his father was far stronger than he would ever be, and he knew it. He gave up, letting the man haul him like a rag doll through the woods. He wanted to plead, and beg for the man's forgiveness for letting him down, letting Sammy down, but he just couldn't find the energy to even bother to speak anymore. He just followed along with his father's action, trying to walk but stumbling rather badly instead. "Gonna do what I should've done along time ago," his father's muffled voice came from somewhere near his left ear. "Drown you like the pathetic, useless dog that you are," and Dean managed to open his eyes just long enough to see the black lake that gleamed like dark ice standing in front of him.

"Dad?" and suddenly he managed to find his voice, and there was most definitely fear in it now because there was no way in hell his father was actually going to do this, was there? "Dad, wait!" he pleaded, latching onto his father's jacket, digging what little nails he had into the material. "I can hear again! I'm not deaf anymore. I can be a better hunter, just give me the chance!" he shouted, green eyes large and afraid. "Dad, please, I'm your son!"

"Not anymore," the man standing above him answered, and just before his father shoved him into the lake, he saw that his eyes _were_ black. Just like a fucking demon's.

S*P*N*S*P*N

He awoke to the sound of shouting, and at first, he thought he was dreaming, but then, he realized he wasn't.

"You think I don't know what you did?! You honestly think I don't know how you treated him? You abused him! And you think that that's alright? That just because you're sorry, it's okay and you can come back? Just like that? Well, you're sorely mistaken." It was Sam...his little brother was shouting at someone.

God, his head fucking _hurt_.

"A lot happened while you were gone, Sam. More than you claim you know." Dean's blood ran cold at that voice, because that voice belonged to their father.

Their father that had just tried to drown him in a lake.

He didn't want to open his eyes, didn't even want to believe that this was real, but he knew it was. Oh, God, he knew it was. His clothes—hell, his whole body—was still wet. He could feel his jeans and jacket, clinging to his skin, and all the wounds he had retained at the Benders house, from the knot on the back of his head, to the X's across his hands, and all the rest of the cuts and burns he'd been on the receiving end of—this was all fucking real.

Well, shit.

"More than I know? Oh, trust me, I can believe that." And Dean could hear just how dangerous his brother sounded. He sounded ready to kill.

"Sam-"

"Don't Sam me!" the youngest Winchester exclaimed. "You think I'm just going to let you come back here and act like everything's okay because you saved him? How fucking stupid do I look to you?"

Saved him? Dean's fingers clenched the sheets, his heartbeat pounding ferociously in his ears as he tried so hard to keep still and quiet. His father hadn't _saved_ him. His father had tried to kill him!

"That kid was going to kill him, Sam!"

"What, like you hadn't tried the same thing before? After all the beatings you gave him? You didn't think it was possible that someone other than yourself would try it? Shit, he couldn't even tell you were possessed because you acted like a fucking demon before it even happened! What does that tell you?" Sam yelled, and Dean knew they had to be in each other's faces by now.

"Look, I wouldn't have come here if I didn't need your help," John stated, and Dean honestly wished he could just fall back asleep and pretend none of this was happening.

"Help? Help you what?" Sam scoffed.

"Catch the thing that killed your mother."

Well, shit.

**A/N : Once again, apologies for the slow update. Working on tons of things right now, aside from my actual day job, so time has been trying. HUGE THANKS to those that reviewed last chap : MysteryMadChen, Akira, kissacazador, dandy44, Wunjo, and AgildedCage. I truly appreciate the support, and eventually, I will finish this story. Thank you all again, and yeah, it's about to get crazy. ;)**


	14. Drug You

**The Illusionist II**

**Chapter 14 : Drug You**

Sam sighed, and stopped. His brother was hurt; what the hell was he thinking? Rolling his eyes, he turned around, making his way back through the darkness to where Dean had been.

All he'd wanted to do was help him, and once again, Dean had shrugged him off. Told him everything was fine, but it wasn't. It was far from fine. Did he honestly think Sam was that blind? The brunette's brow was narrowed as he continued to retrace his footsteps, frustration still seething through his veins. He had seen the burn mark on his brother's ear. It was red and looked painful, and Sam knew it had to have been hurting. Just like all the other wounds those crazies had inflicted upon Dean. Bad enough he'd gotten hit in the head again. Sam couldn't even count the number of concussions his brother had been on the receiving end of, but they were too many for one human being to have had.

Sam's lips pursed even further the more he thought about his brother's condition. He knew he was being a selfish brat when he walked away, but he wondered, did Dean even realize what an ass he was being? The big "bravado" mask that Dean wore was wearing thin, and Sam could see right through it. He grimaced when he thought about the marks he had seen that decorated his brother's knuckles, and recalled just how _wonderful_ it had felt when he'd put his through a mirror.

He didn't even want to think about the wounds he hadn't been able to see, because Dean had become more than sufficient at hiding them nowadays.

_Probably due to all the practice he had thanks to Dad. _

Sam could feel his face heat up at the thought of his father. A grim smile graced his lips as he thought about giving the man just one of the beatings he'd given his brother—the satisfaction that it would give him—but then he thought about Dean, and he knew better. It would hurt his brother too much, because for some damned reason, Dean actually cared about the man.

Sam was pretty positive that he didn't anymore. Didn't know if he could even force himself too. Not after all that he'd seen and heard about.

The rustling of leaves pulled him from his reverie. He looked around, the trees so thick that the moonlight mostly trickled through them. "Dean!" he called out, squinting in the darkness, and wishing he'd at least stolen a flashlight from those manic hillbillies. When he didn't receive an answer, he tried again. "Dean!" His brow narrowed further when he realized that his brother had fallen a lot further behind him than he thought he had.

"Sam!" a voice shot through the darkness, but that voice didn't belong to his brother. The hairs on the back of his neck immediately stood on end, and the sudden recognition hit him like a ton of bricks. "Sam!" it came again, and he knew that it was their father's.

His heart instantly started to pound, questions racing through his mind a mile a minute. The main one being, _What the fuck?_

He hurriedly followed the sound of his father's voice, trampling through the brush, not caring about the branches that scraped across his cheekbones. He knew only one thing—that if their father was there, something was most definitely wrong and fucked up. And the fact that Dean hadn't been the one to respond him scared him to his core.

He wondered briefly if he wasn't having another vision. After all, the last one had been frighteningly real and vivid, but as he got nearer and nearer to his father's voice and the sounds of what he could only presume to be some sort of struggling, he knew better. This shit was real. As real as the ghostly wind that was starting to howl in his ears, as real as the ground packed with dead leaves underneath his feet.

It wasn't long until he came upon a clearing that opened up with a view of a lake.

He stood there, dumbfounded for a moment, taking in the scene.

There on the ground at the edge of the lake lay a body, though who's, he was unsure of. Next, he saw that his father was pulling someone out of the black pool of shimmering ice, whom he immediately recognized as his brother. "Dean!" the name shot from his lips, and suddenly, his legs moved again, propelling him to the lake's bank. "Dean!" he shouted once more, though he was acutely aware that his brother obviously couldn't hear him. "What the hell are you doing here?" he exclaimed, glancing at his father as he grabbed a hold of his brother's soaking wet clothes and hauled him up out of the frigid waters.

"Sam, I know we've had our differences, but now is not the time," the older man stated, voice sounding more gravelly and worn that the youngest Winchester could ever recall. The moonlight only highlighted the fact that John looked worse than he ever had; and Sam knew that some part of him should at least try to care about his father, but that part was long gone and he just couldn't. Instead, he only felt anger. And if he wasn't holding onto his brother's motionless body, he would've decked the man right in his jaw.

"Well, I hope you can make some time, because you've got a lot of explaining to do," Sam ground out, jaw clenching visibly underneath his skin. His eyes narrowed on the man as he extracted Dean completely from the lake, immediately checking for a pulse. Thankfully, he felt one, and as he examined his brother further, he saw that he was still breathing, there being no water in his lungs.

Without hesitation, he slipped an arm underneath Dean's knees and the other under his shoulders, picking him up as he stood to his feet. Even though Dean was soaked through, Sam had no trouble as he started walking, John on his heels. "Maybe you should lead the way," Sam stated through his teeth, anger still emanating off of him.

"Sam-"

"Save it for the motel, and that's if I even let you inside," he spat, venom heavy in his tone as he held onto his brother for dear life. He could feel Dean's shivering, and couldn't help but feel guilty at the fact that this was all somehow his fault.

"Sam, I know things didn't exactly end well with us the last time we spoke-"

"You're damn right they didn't!" And Sam could feel the hatred growing with each new step he took, fingers clenching the cotton material of Dean's clothes like there was no tomorrow.

"Just give me a chance to explain-"

"Like I said, you can explain it later. Once Dean is safe and back at the motel," and it was getting harder and harder for Sam to speak without wanting to yell and scream in his father's face. "Oh, and by the way, the only reason I'm even letting you this close to him is because I don't want him to catch hypothermia from me having to walking ten miles to get to the car. So consider yourself lucky that you've gotten this far."

John stayed quiet once that sentence was spoken, face drawn into an unreadable expression. A few moments later, they came upon a black truck which Sam immediately lowered Dean into the bed of, climbing in after him. "Sam-"

Once again, the brunette cut him off. "We'll be just fine back here. Just drive," he stated, face still twisted bitterly.

John started the truck, the engine instantly roaring to life.

Sam slid further down into the back of the truck bed, pulling his brother up and between his legs so that Dean's head rested on his chest. He wrapped his arms around him, knowing that it probably wouldn't do much good as far as warming him up went, but he couldn't bear to let him be within ten feet of their father right now. Didn't even want the man able to touch him.

He hated the way his brother's skin was so pale that it appeared almost translucent. The way the dark circles stood out starkly under his eyes, and the way he was so still. If Sam wouldn't have known for a fact that his brother was still breathing, he would've thought him to be a corpse. Sam immediately cringed at the thought, and began to rub his hands up and down Dean's shoulders, attempting to warm him up, but ultimately knowing it wasn't doing a damned bit of good.

As Dean trembled in his arms, he too could feel himself shaking, though he wasn't sure why. The cold, fear, exhaustion—one or even a mixture of all three could be the culprit. Gritting his teeth against the cold, biting wind that was blowing across his face, he gripped his brother tighter and started to murmur in his ear, telling him that he was going to be safe and alright and that he had to be, dammit because Sam couldn't lose him.

Sam watched as the trees zoomed past them, gravel spinning and kicking underneath the truck's tires. The ride was not a smooth one by any means, but eventually, they made it back to the motel. As soon as John stopped the truck, Sam was already climbing out of the back of it. Once his feet hit the pavement, he leaned over and grabbed his brother, gently maneuvering him over his shoulder.

He wanted to ignore their father as he walked passed him, but it was hard when the older man was already walking in front of him towards their room. "So what, were you spying on us? Didn't think your kids could get the job done?" Sam spat, yanking the keys from his pocket and pushing open the door.

"I wasn't-"

"I didn't say you could come in," Sam interrupted him, hurriedly making his way over to Dean's bed and gently laying him on top of the covers.

John ignored him and walked across the entryway anyway, closing the door shut behind him. "I wasn't spying on you, Sam."

Before the man had a chance to continue, Sam spoke again, blue eyes gleaming with anger. "Oh really? Then how in the hell did you know we were here? Just happened to be in the neighborhood?" and within seconds, he was in his father's face, brow narrowed and ready for a fight.

"I read about the missing persons, and I just knew you boys would be up here. This is the only motel in town, kiddo-"

"Don't," Sam warned, jaw muscles pulled tight in his cheeks. "You don't have any damned right to call me kiddo, or son, or anything that even relates to us being family!" He was seething now, and could feel his hands transforming into fists at his sides.

John's face hardened, expression darkening instantly. "Sam, you _are_ my son, whether you like it or not. Now I know that the last time we spoke, we didn't exactly end on the greatest of terms, but you need to stop acting like a child, and listen to me when I'm talking to you."

"You told me that if I walked out the door, that I needn't come back! And you can trust and believe me when I say I wasn't going to if it hadn't been for Dean. You know, the _other_ son that you have that you treat like a soldier under your command rather than your family!" Sam shouted, eyes gleaming just as dangerously, if not more so than his father's. "You know he almost died? Huh? Because of us hunting something that you—_you_—sent us the co-ords to. Were you just too damned busy to listen to that voice mail I left you? Because," Sam stated, leaning in even closer, "I meant every single word of it."

"I may not have been able to have been there then, and I'm sorry for that, but I'm here now, Sam. And as much as you may not _like_ it, I saved his ass tonight when that bastard was about to drown him in that lake." The anger was beginning to ooze out of the oldest Winchester, bit by bit like the slow burn of a cigarette.

"Yeah, that's not all you've done. You think I don't know what you did?! You honestly think I don't know how you treated him? You abused him! And you think that that's alright? That just because you're sorry, it's okay and you can come back? Just like that? Well, you're sorely mistaken." Sam could feel his nails cutting into his palm, but he didn't care. He was almost at the end of his rope, and could feel his irrational side wanting to take over.

"A lot happened while you were gone, Sam. More than you claim to know," John stated, eyes never breaking contact with his son's.

"More than I know? Oh, trust me, I can believe that." And Sam could feel the nerves in his arms twitching. He honestly didn't know how much longer he was going to be able to hold back. Dean was still passed out... The thought of just punching his father right in the face was so damned tempting too.

"Sam-"

"Don't _Sam_ me!" the youngest Winchester exclaimed. "You think I'm just going to let you come back here and act like everything's okay because you saved him? How fucking stupid do I look to you?" Just one punch to the jaw. Hell, maybe he'd be able to knock some sense into the man. No, not sense, just a little of his own medicine. Make him feel how Dean felt...

"That man was going to kill him, Sam!" John shouted, his temper getting the best of him. His hands were now fists at his sides as well, clenching and unclenching.

"What, like you hadn't tried the same thing before? After all the beatings you gave him? You didn't think it was possible that someone other than yourself would give it a try? Shit, he couldn't even tell you were possessed because you acted like a fucking demon before it even happened! What does that tell you?" The veins in Sam's forehead and neck looked as though they were all but ready to burst open at any second, and he could feel his arm starting to pull back, preparing to sock John right in his jaw.

"Look, I wouldn't have come here if I didn't need your help," John stated, breath coming quicker and faster.

"Help? Help you what?" Sam scoffed.

"Catch the thing that killed your mother," John admitted, and almost instantly, Sam stiffened.

"What?" the brunette asked, expression changing from downright hatred towards his father to shocked. "Come again?"

"I've got a strong lead—a real lead—on the thing that killed your mother and Jessica," and at the mention of her name, Sam's face softened momentarily only to grow confused and angry once again. "How in the hell do you even know about her?" he forced the words from his lips, wanting to hit his father all over again. He didn't know why, but just her name coming out of his father's mouth made him want to clobber the man all over again.

"Sam, it's a long story-"

"Shorten it for me then!" Sam spat, eyes aflame with anger once more.

"Sam," and there was that warning tone in John's voice that Sam recognized almost instantly. But he honestly didn't care if he was setting the man off; if they just so happened to get in a fight, then so be it.

"We visited you sometimes," and the voice that spoke hadn't belonged to John that time. "At Stanford."

Both men turned towards the bed, temporarily pulled from their argument as two pairs of eyes fell on the middle Winchester who was now sitting up on the bed, wary expression on his thin visage. He looked horrible, skin pale and bruises now visible along his jaw and left eye. His head was bowed, focused on the ugly flowery bedspread rather than his father and brother.

Sam was the first one to move into action, sending a glaring glance in his father's direction before hurriedly making his way over to the bed.

"Don't," Dean muttered, shaking his head as Sam was about to put a hand on his shoulder.

"But Dean-"

The middle Winchester cut him off, holding his right hand up in a defensive gesture. "Just don't, Sam," he stated, voice quietly breaking, eyes still unable to meet the others in the room. "Why don't you two get back to your argument while I clean up. Don't worry about me."

"Dean," and this time it was John who spoke, tone even and voice deep.

Upon hearing his name, Dean immediately curtailed his attempt of sliding off the bed, still favoring his left arm. He didn't look up though, just kept his eyes downward towards the floor.

"I know we have a lot to talk about as well, son," John started, only pausing when he heard the barely audible noise that had escaped Sam's throat. "But you honestly need to let your brother look at those wounds."

Sam watched as Dean relented, disdain for himself showcasing brightly in his eyes. The youngest Winchester gently pulled Dean up from the bed, his heart breaking as he felt how badly Dean was shaking. Dean swayed as soon as he was on his feet, and Sam did his best to hold on to him, gently but firmly as he guided him into the bathroom while their father looked on, and Dean did his best to shove away, though to no avail. Sam wasn't letting go of him.

Sam didn't miss the way his brother was limping, and even though he could tell Dean was trying his damnedest to hide it, the wound was still obvious.

Guilt immediately washed over Sam as he thought about how carelessly he'd just tossed his brother onto the bed and argued with their father first, instead of tending to his injuries like he was supposed to. And Dean had just laid there, for God knew how long, awake and listening to every damned jab they were sending at each other. The middle Winchester had always said Sam was best at verbal sparring; Sam hated that he was right.

He helped Dean over to the toilet, not missing the way his brother grumbled under his breath about how he "didn't need help, dammit." Once Dean was seated and looking as dejected as ever, Sam helped him out of his jacket, attempting to identify all of his wounds.

With the jacket and over-shirt off, Sam was able to get a pretty clear picture of the damage that had been inflicted on his brother, cringing at the wounds that he counted as his eyes lingered over Dean's far too thin body. He was clad only in a black t-shirt and jeans, leaving pale, skinny arms crumpled limply in his lap. Goosebumps spread across his flesh, popping up and down his veiny arms left and right.

It felt like everywhere Sam looked, there was blood or burnt flesh. He counted at least four burns marks, and he figured there was a possibility of there being more. Then there the cuts and slashes all over his hands and face.

His leg was easily the worst though; Dean's makeshift bandage did nothing to hide the bloody wound located there, and Sam prayed that it had stopped bleeding.

"Dean, you're not gonna like this, but the pants have to come off," Sam stated, eyes still narrowed in scrutiny of his older brother's body. He immediately began to attempt to aid his brother in getting rid of the denim material, though Dean wasn't having it.

"I can do this myself," Dean snapped, pushing Sam's hands away from him, voice trembling with every syllable.

"Stop fighting me, Dean," Sam scolded, easily overpowering his older brother. "Look, I'm sorry I left you—I really am," Sam had to bite back the lump that was starting to form in his throat from his guilt. "But you have to let me help you, alright? You've lost a lot of blood, and I know everything sucks right now 'cause he's less than twenty feet away, but you have to just stop. Okay?"

Dean stood up suddenly, gaze directed on the bathroom door as though John were going to bust the damn thing down at any second and come in, and started to undo his belt. Sam hurriedly reached out as Dean almost fell over, steadying him with firm hands only to have Dean squirm beneath him.

"I got this!" Dean yelled, hands shaking furiously as he tried to get out of Sam's grasp again. His breath was starting to come harder and faster, as though he couldn't draw air into his lungs quick enough.

Sam could see the beginnings of a panic attack coming on, and hurriedly tried to calm his brother down. He grabbed a hold of Dean by his shoulders, hunching slightly so their faces were eye to eye. "Dean, look at me. Dean!" he barked out, raising his voice only because he still couldn't get his brother to so much as send a glance his way. Dean's eyes immediately shot to Sam's, and the younger man could see the fear, hate, and shame that consumed them. "I'm not going to let him hurt you. Do you understand?" Sam asked, hating the fact that he could see Dean's heart beat throbbing rapidly in his throat.

Dean swallowed, adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he continued to stare at him, brow narrowing as though he were trying to understand what Sam had just said. Finally, he spoke. "I'm fine, Sam. I don't _need_ you to protect me." His voice weaved in and out of being stable, and sounded as though he were about to lose it.

"For just once in your life, just let me—let me help you," Sam pleaded, blue eyes wide and sorrowful. "Please."

Dean clenched his jaw, and searched his brother's blue orbs some more before glancing back at the door. "Hurry up," he finally mumbled, though his hands were still clenched into fists at his sides.

Sam nodded, and released Dean from his grip. He watched as Dean unbuckled his belt, and slid it off, the jeans automatically slipping down past his hip bones and to the floor. Sam felt his stomach clench at the sight, knowing that it was wrong, wondering how in the hell he could have let Dean starve himself as he had—but instead of saying anything further about the matter, he clamped his mouth shut and got to work.

The stab wound was deep, at least two inches into his flesh, but luckily, it had stopped bleeding. Sam determined it would have to be stitched and bandaged, and quickly got about disinfecting the wound. He didn't miss the hiss that escaped his brother's tightly clasped lips, or the way his leg reflexively jumped when the alcohol made contact with it. Once all the blood was gone (even the trail that had dried from the start of the wound to his ankle), the youngest Winchester began the arduous task of sewing up his brother's skin. He glanced up at his brother's face every now and then only to find Dean's gaze fixed on the door behind him. He soon finished, and wrapped the wound in gauze, inwardly hoping that he had enough to finish the job.

From there, he went about treating and dressing the burn that was on the inside of his brother's thigh, thankful that Dean had remembered to pick up some Neosporin on their last pharmacy run. They were going to need it.

"Are you done yet?" Dean ground out, and Sam looked up at him as he finished with the burn wound. Dean was glancing nervously between the brunette and the door.

"Yeah," Sam said, nodding as he stood up. "With your lower half anyway," he added, knowing that the rest of Dean was covered in three times as many injuries, if not more.

"Good," Dean muttered, and reached for his mud-caked jeans, instantly flinching back when Sam did too. With narrowed eyes, he stared at his brother, looking as though Sam's touch was like the fire that had burned him hours earlier. "What?"

"Those are dirty," Sam explained in the calmest voice he could muster. "Let me get you some clean ones. I'll be right back, okay?"

Dean continued to stare at him before finally nodding his approval. "Hurry up," he repeated, voice barely audible as he cast his gaze elsewhere.

Sam nodded, and stood up. With Dean's jeans in hand, he exited out of the bathroom, making sure to close the door behind him.

John was standing by the window, arms folded across his chest and that same unreadable expression set upon his features. "How's he doing?" he asked.

Sam bit his tongue as he made his way over to Dean's duffle. "Like you actually care," he muttered darkly as he pulled out a change of clothes for his brother. He was satisfied with his choice until he spotted one of his old, long forgotten hoodies at the bottom of the bag. Another wave of guilt crashed over him, and he quickly pulled it out from its hiding spot and zipped up the bag. He had almost made it back to the bathroom when his father spoke again.

"I'm gonna go grab us something to eat. I'll be right back."

Sam ignored him, and went back into the bathroom, closing the door once more. He sat Dean's clothes on the sink counter with the exception of the jeans, which he handed to his brother.

Dean took them wordlessly, and stood, Sam right by his side, just in case. Dean stumbled as he tried to slip his leg through the denim, and Sam silently assisted, ignoring the choice swear words his brother was weakly uttering.

Once the jeans were on, Sam motioned towards the shirt. "I'm sorry, but it's gotta come off now," he said, though Dean didn't move a muscle. "I need you to take your shirt off, Dean," Sam tried again, this time, his tone was laced with a hint of frustration.

"And what if I say no?" Dean challenged, eyes narrowing as he spoke.

Sam sighed. "Look, Dean. I know you're still upset with me right now, and I'm sorry for that. But you need to let me help you. As much as you might hate it, it happens sometimes, and you can't do everything by yourself. So stop acting like it's just you against the world, and let me take care of you."

Dean's jaw clenched through his skin, and after a few tense seconds, he removed his shirt, hands trembling all the while. "It's cold in here," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "So _hurry_ up."

Sam bit his tongue, doing his best not to speak again until he was done. He worked mutely, gently spreading _Neosporin _on all the visible burns, grimacing himself at the one on Dean's right bi-cep. He honestly couldn't tell which one looked worse : the one on his shoulder, or the one one his arm. Either way, he didn't miss the way Dean's eyes scrunched up as he made contact with them. He wrapped everything in gauze, almost exhausting their entire supply.

He did his best to ignore the way his brother's ribs still poked out from underneath his skin as he cleaned up the cut on his side, thankful that it was much more shallow that the stab wound on Dean's leg. It didn't need stitches, so Sam briskly bandaged it up and moved on to his brother's hands.

Before he could start though, Dean curtly mumbled, "A shirt would be nice."

"Right," Sam said distractedly. He pulled the hunter green henley off of the counter, and handed it to his brother. Dean took the shirt and painstakingly slipped it over his head, his entire body tensing as Sam helped him into it.

"I can do it myself, Sam," Dean stated, though Sam wasn't hearing it this time around. "Dammit, Sam, I said I can do it myself! I've done this plenty of times without your _assistance_. It's not rocket science."

Sam's patience was starting to wear thin. "I'm doing the best I can here, Dean, and I don't know how many times I've asked you to stop fighting me, but I'm not gonna ask again. Quit acting like a three-year-old; I'm almost done." The youngest Winchester couldn't help but feel even more guilt-ridden at his words. He hated the situation they were in right now just as much as Dean did, and as angry as he was, he was going to take care of his brother, whether he liked it or not.

"I'm not acting like a three-year-old," Dean declared through grit teeth, eyes gleaming wildly as they zoned in on his brother's. "I just want to get this shit over with, so hurry the fuck up."

"I am!" Sam shouted. Dean recoiled instantaneously at the sound, and Sam found himself taking a step back from his brother. He ran his hand through his hair, tugging at the back end in frustration. "I just have to take care of your head, and your hands; then, I'll be done. Okay?" he said, just as ready as Dean was for him to be finished.

Dean didn't reply. Instead, he just stared ahead, scowl marring his wary features.

Sam took a deep breath, and went back to attending to Dean's wounds, thankful that there weren't many left. He cleaned and disinfected his wrists, then wrapped them with the last of the remaining gauze. He moved on to Dean's ear, and then finally to the gash on the back of his head. It took longer than he liked to remove the blood from Dean's hair, but eventually, he managed to get all of it out. The worst part came last; he had to stitch up this wound as well. The laceration was about an inch or so long, so made quick work of sewing the skin back together. As he was doing so, he realized how many scars his brother actually had on his scalp. Most of them were located on the back of his skull, all small, if not smaller than the one he was currently taking care of. There were at least six that were visible, and with a sinking feeling in his chest, he wondered how many more existed underneath Dean's hair.

His train of thought was interrupted by the contained hiss that escaped Dean's lips.

"Sorry," he murmured when he realized he'd dug in a little too deep that time. He forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand, and ardently finished. It took less than a minute to take care take of the small cut on Dean's cheek, and then he was finally done. "There," he announced. "All done."

Dean continued to stay silent as he stood up, not making it less than three feet before Sam had to catch him so that his face wouldn't meet the floor. The brunette felt his brother automatically resist again, and attempt to push away before ultimately giving up and stilling in his arms. "He went to go get something to eat," Sam stated, and he could feel Dean start to shake. He could tell Dean was trying to stop it, but the more he tried, the worse it got. "Here," Sam said, pulling the forgotten hoodie off of the counter, and handing it to his brother. He knew the trembling was more than likely knowing that their father was now there, but he figured the worn garment couldn't hurt.

Dean stared at the charcoal gray material for a moment before finally slipping it on, wincing as he slipped his left arm through the sleeve. Sam watched as he zipped it up, the size XXL hooded sweatshirt appearing far too large on his brother's small frame, but there was the slightest hint of contentment that flashed across his brother's face. And even though it didn't take long for it to disappear, Sam was grateful that he'd managed to give his brother some level of comfort, no matter how fleeting it was.

As much as he hated to do it, he hovered along side his brother until they made it to Dean's bed, allowing the smallest Winchester to sit down on his own.

Silence wafted between them until Sam couldn't take it anymore. "Are we really going to do this?"

"Do what?" Dean mumbled offhandedly, still sitting on the edge of the bed, gaze fixed on the bottom of the motel door. His posture was nothing but tense, and Sam tried his best to give his brother space, choosing to pace the distance of the room instead of sitting down next to him.

"Let him dictate our lives again," Sam responded, a hint of anger in his tone. "I mean, after everything's he done, I don't even want him back in this damned room."

"He's our blood, Sam. Just because he's made mistakes-"

"Mistakes?" Sam's voice was starting to raise as a fresh batch of anger began to slither through his veins. "Dean, do you honestly know what the definition of a _mistake_ is?"

Dean's gaze shot from the door to Sam at the comment, hurt and anger of his own gleaming in his eyes. "Fuck you," he said, voice low and gravelly. "Just because I didn't spend the last three years of my life at some fancy ass school doesn't mean I'm an idiot. So fuck you, Sammy."

"He abused you, Dean! He fully knew what he was doing, and meant it! Don't you get that? It wasn't an accident, or a mistake; it was him taking all his anger and frustration out on you because he could! A mistake is when I give myself the wrong insulin because I'm so exhausted I can't tell the difference between the two bottles! A mistake is when I get you blueberry pie when you asked for cherry! Those are mistakes, Dean!" Sam knew that his hatred for his father was getting the best of him, but he couldn't help it. He needed Dean to see the man how he saw him, even though he knew the action was trivial, nonetheless.

"Yeah, I made a _mistake_ when I asked you to come with me," Dean muttered darkly, jaw clenched tightly in anger. "Should've looked for the man by myself like I planned to in the first place," he added.

"And if you would have done that, we both know you'd probably be dead by know 'cause God knows you can't take care of yourself," Sam retorted, blue eyes aflame with fury.

Dean stood up suddenly at that, and Sam could tell it was taking everything in him not to fall right back down to the mattress below. But his brother had that fierce look of Winchester determination in his eyes, so therefore, anything was possible. "I've been taking care of myself and you, little brother, for the past twenty-two years of my life, so believe me when I say, I would have survived just fine on my own." His chest was heaving up and down, his hands fists at his sides once more.

Sam wanted to stop himself from scoffing at his brother, but the gesture rolled off his tongue anyway in typical Sam-like fashion. "That's bullshit and you know it," Sam stated, a look of stubbornness present across his drawn brow. "I have to literally almost force food down your throat now. So no, Dean, I honestly don't think you would've last two months out on that road by yourself. You can't sustain yourself off of just coffee and a piece of pie every other day!"

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but went silent when the door opened back up, their father stepping across the threshold with two plastic bags in his hand. "You two alright?" he asked, tone stern as ever.

Dean immediately answered with, "Yes, sir," voice quiet now, much more reserved than it had been seconds before.

"Good. Both of you take a seat. We've got some planning to do," he answered, setting the bags down on the table and sliding off his jacket. He hung it on the back of the chair and sat down, Sam staring at him incredulously the entire time.

"Seriously? You honestly believe you can just come in here and make yourself at home?" the youngest Winchester shouted, eyes narrowed in anger. "Pretend the last four years haven't happened?"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean ground out tightly, not having moved from his spot either.

"But it's the truth, Dean!" Sam shouted, still sporting a look of disdain towards their father.

"He might've found the thing that killed Mom so can you please put your differences aside for just once?" Sam stared at his brother—really looked at him—and found his fingers slowly uncurling from the fists they'd been transformed into. Dean looked like shit, even covered in bandages and clean, he still looked horribly weak, and so worn that Sam was pretty positive Dean would be able to sleep for the next few days if allowed the chance. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't hit their father (not when Dean was looking anyway), but he hadn't promised that he wouldn't yell or scream at the man. Perhaps though, just for a little while, a truce could be drawn.

For Dean's sake.

Hell, for their mother's sake as well.

And Jessica's.

"Fine," Sam finally sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face and through his hair. "Fine, Dean," he repeated, nodding. Reluctantly, he sat down at the table, as far away from John as possible. "Let's hear it then."

**A/N- Thank you all so much for sticking with this story! MANY THANKS to babyreaper, dandy44, MysteryMadchen, wunjo, akira, CrazyDreamin, kissacazador, SupernaturalCheetahFast, renniespice, Stryder2008, and the rest of you lovely people that have read and reviewed this story. I appreciate you all, and hope to finish this story sometime soon. Not sure how many chapters left, but it's gonna get crazy folks! Until next time...**


	15. You Don't Know Me

**The Illusionist II**

**Chapter 15 : You Don't Know Me **

Awkward. Tense. On edge.

Dean couldn't help but feel all those things and more with John sitting less than five feet from him. Every single movement, no matter how small, made him want to jump; and even though he kept most of his fidgeting under control, a few twitches and flinches still prevailed.

He felt foolish, yet at the same time, he couldn't help but be scared. And as much as he hated to admit that to himself, he knew it was true.

His father's eyes had been black, void of any emotion whatsoever, when he'd thrown him into that lake, but he'd overheard the man telling Sam that he'd saved him, and he couldn't help but question himself. Had he really seen those two solid black orbs sunken deep within his father's skull, or had it all just been a hallucination? Had he really been that bone-deep exhausted and hurt that he'd just made it all up?

Dean was positive that the salt lines hadn't been tampered with. He'd looked over the window and the door, and neither line had been broken.

Demons couldn't cross salt lines if they weren't broken, could they? He was sure they couldn't. Pretty positive anyway. No—they couldn't. It was impossible.

"...There are certain signs that appear in an area where demon activity is involved; cattle deaths, temperature fluctuations, electrical storms—all of them are telling signs. And lately, this type of activity has been happening around the Chicago area..."

John's voice filtered in and out of Dean's head. He tried desperately to concentrate on what the man was saying, but something still felt wrong; off.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sam's leg bouncing and shaking underneath the table, and his immediate instinct was to reach over and stop him, but he didn't. He knew his brother was just as anxious as he was, though Sam was much more willing to show it.

He glanced at his brother, saw the way he kept clenching and unclenching his jaw, and couldn't help but wonder if he'd been doing the same thing. He knew how angry Sam was. Hell, when wasn't his little brother angry about something? Although, Dean had to admit, most of Sam's anger was due to Jessica's death. Nowadays anyway.

Dean figured that was probably the sole reason why Sam was actually listening to their father instead of snapping at him or cutting him off every few seconds. He wanted to avenge his dead girlfriend. Then what? The middle Winchester knew his brother hated hunting, had ever since he'd found out what John actually did for a living when he was five years old. Hated it even worse when he got older, and saw how brutal monsters really were.

Dean had never even considered hating the job. It was apart of his life, a mark emblazoned on his soul, something that he couldn't shake, regardless of the fact of how shitty it could be at times. They saved people—that was what was most important. Saving innocent people who had the unfortunate luck of being haunted by a ghost, or worst case scenario, being possessed by a demon.

It didn't matter if he got a scar here or there, it only mattered if there was one less person that had to worry about having a sleepless night, or live in a waking nightmare.

He didn't regret his job one bit, and would live the life he had over and over again, no matter what. He only wished that he could be better at it, faster, and more intelligent. Be someone that Sam and his father could be proud of instead of just stuck with.

"...I have a friend back in Colorado. Name's Daniel Elkins. You see, boys, he has this weapon, a Colt; and it can kill anything. Including the thing that killed your mother and Jessica."

"You're sure about this?" Sam asked, the curiosity in his voice catching Dean's attention. He looked over at Sam again, kid hadn't even touched his food. It sat there in its container, lid closed just as his was. His leg had stopped bouncing though, and the anger that had been carved into his face for the past couple of hours slowly eased away, like waves washing sand off of a beach.

John nodded in response. "I'm positive. I've already contacted him, told him we'd be there by Friday night," the oldest Winchester admitted. He hadn't really touched his food either, Dean noticed. There were a few bites missing from his burger, but other than that, his container remained mostly full as well.

"Wait, Friday night?" Sam inquired, brow narrowing in reflex. "That's only two days from now. You do realize that we're not exactly a hundred percent here, right?"

John's neutral expression darkened at the tone of the youngest Winchester's voice. "This is the thing that _killed_ your mother, Sam. And Jessica. Does it really matter?"

Dean stilled altogether, sensing a fight about to erupt. He couldn't help but compare his little brother and father to thunderheads, clouds that kept raising higher and higher into the atmosphere until the pressure inside them became too great, and they exploded into a thunderstorm.

"Of course it matters!" Sam snapped back, every bit of tension that had left him making his body rigid once more. "Dean's got injuries over forty percent of his body. He was tortured by those maniacs for Pete's sake!"

"Sam-" Dean hated it when they spoke about him as though he weren't even there. He knew they'd done it when he was deaf. They'd gotten away with it then, but he wasn't about to let it continue now.

"He's not in any shape to be chasing after some mythical gun you claim your friend has!" Sam continued on, looking like a snake poised to strike. The only things he was missing were fangs and a forked tongue. The image would have been hilarious if it had been a different situation, but right now, Sam was basically stating to their tough-as-nails father that Dean was weak, and unable to do anything but sit back and rest like a good boy was supposed to.

Dean couldn't help but agree with their father on one aspect—if this was the thing that had killed their mother, he didn't give a rat's ass how wounded he was, he wanted to find it and kill it and rid it of this world and the next. But as per usual, Sam never saw things the way he did. Never tried to anyway, not that he could tell.

"Sam-" Dean tried again, only to be cut off by his little brother once more.

"Does it matter?" the brunette scoffed, "Of course it matters!" Dean knew he was going to keep rambling on if he didn't stop him, so he forced the words out of his throat, even if it hurt.

"Sam, I'm fine!" Dean declared, voice raised loud and clear.

Those words got his little brother's attention, although, the rumbling tornado also known as Sam Winchester decided that he didn't like them, so his anger immediately jumped from their father to him.

"_Fine_? You can't be serious?" Sam said incredulously. "I just sewed your skin shut and patched up numerous burns all over your body, Dean. You are not _fine._"

"Sam, all we're gonna do is drive to Colorado to retrieve a gun, okay? It's not like the demon's gonna be waiting for us right then and there, and even if it is, like Dad said, does it matter? I don't care how banged up I am, if we've got the chance to kill this thing, then we need to take it," he explained, hating the way Sam was currently looking at him. He knew the expression well. It was the _oh-so-you're-taking-Dad's-side-again-go-figure _one_. _

"You're just going to sit back and pretend like nothing ever happened, aren't you?" Sam questioned him, anger lowering his brow once more.

"Sam, can't you just set your differences aside for the moment, and focus on the task at hand?" Dean knew how bad he sounded, could hear the way his voice gave out and cracked after every other word, but he cleared his throat and kept on going, trying his damnedest to make his case convincing. Though, Sam had been studying to be a lawyer, so he was probably shit out of luck anyway. His baby brother could argue with the best of them.

"Differences? Dean, should I remind you of what the definition of differences actually is-"

"No, Sammy, there's no need for that," Dean stated finitely, his own jaw clenching visibly through his skin. "We have an opportunity to catch the thing that killed mom. Maybe I need to explain to you what the definition of the word _comprehend_ is, because I don't think you understand what _I'm_ saying. We can't pass this up. This could be the only chance we've got, and as much as you may not like it, we need to take it."

"It's just that simple for you, isn't it?" the younger brunette asked, trademark bitchface sliding across his features. "Doesn't matter how badly you're hurt, Dad comes back and it's jump on the bandwagon time, and screw everyone and everything else." It was at that moment, Dean saw how pale his little brother was, and just how badly his hands were shaking.

"You can get angry later," Dean returned, reaching over the table and unlatching the lid on Sam's container. "Eat." It was a simple command that drew nothing but ire from the youngest of the three hunters.

"I'm not hungry," the brunette stated firmly, blue eyes narrowed and questioning.

"This isn't a debate, Sammy. You're blood sugar's low; you need to eat something." The last words were spoken gently, gently enough that he hoped they would coax Sam into listening to him.

"Look who's talking," Sam spat, a light sheen of sweat starting to spread across his forehead. "_I_ need to eat?" He laughed at his words, the sound forced and fake. "_I'm_ not the one that's been starving myself for the past three years." His gaze traveled from Dean to their father, and Dean wanted to clamp his hand over his brother's mouth right then and there, but his father beat him to the punch.

"Dean's right, Sam. You need to eat something. Now." It wasn't a question, or a suggestion. It was an order, and Dean knew his little brother hated to take orders, especially from their father. He only hoped they wouldn't have to hold him down and force something down his throat. Hell, right about now, he honestly didn't know if he was strong enough.

"Is everyone deaf in this family? I said I'm not hungry!" Sam shouted, and suddenly, silence filled the room. Immediately, he realized his mistake. "Dean—Dean, I'm sorry-"

"Don't, Sam," Dean said, shaking his head, unable to look at his brother now. "Just...Just eat." He didn't sound angry, just exasperated and hurt.

"I didn't—I didn't mean it like that," Sam rambled on, his face growing more pale by the minute.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean murmured, handing his brother a plastic fork.

Slowly, Sam began to pick at the overcooked, yet cold fettuccine alfredo, forcing a few forkfuls into his mouth.

"So, it's settled then," Dean sighed. "We leave first thing tomorrow morning?" The question hung in the air until John finally answered with a nod.

It was decided. They'd be leaving for Colorado in the morning; that was, if John and Sam didn't kill each other by then.

S*P*N*S*P*N

The sky was gray as they loaded all of their belongings into their respective vehicles. John was inclined to take his truck, and for that Dean was thankful, and he knew Sam was too.

His brother and father had been exchanging glances ever since Dean offered to grab some breakfast for the three of them, though the idea was quickly shot down. Sam insisted that Dean shouldn't go out anywhere by himself, and honestly, none of them were truly hungry. When they were, they'd stop somewhere along the twelve hundred miles they would be driving through.

Dean was still limping badly, his attempt to hide it becoming more futile the longer he tried. Once their duffels were in the trunk along with the rest of their supplies, Sam snatched the keys from Dean's pocket, ignoring his brother's glare as he got in the driver's side of the Impala.

"Seriously?" Dean asked after he painstakingly climbed in on the passenger side, obviously annoyed with his little brother's over-protectiveness. "I can drive, Sammy," he stated irritably, sounding more like a stubborn child than the adult that he was.

Sam pursed his lips together, but didn't say a word. Instead, he started the vehicle up, the engine rumbling to life. The sound of the car's purrs eased Dean's discomfort a little, but he was still bitter that he wasn't the one in the driver's seat. He sat back and sighed an over-exaggerated sigh, one that he made sure was just loud enough for his little brother to hear, hoping a little of Sam's medicine would come back to bite him in the ass. It didn't quite work out that way though.

Suddenly, Sam's voice cut through the car, his tone making the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand to attention. "We both know how much it would actually hurt for you to hold this steering wheel right now, Dean. This is a twenty hour drive, and you and I both know you're honestly in no condition for it. You need rest instead of a road trip, but since you insist on following Dad like he's the Pied Piper, you're going to shut up and let me drive." Even though Dean knew Sam thought his words were finite, the middle Winchester wasn't having it.

The black truck in front of them finally pulled out of the parking lot, and Sam followed, reluctance evident as ever.

"You need to take that stick you're sitting on out of your ass, and drop this emo bullshit facade, little brother," Dean rebutted, gaze cast on the fumes funneling out of their father's truck as he hit the gas and sped up down the state highway. "Oh, and yes, I know what the definition of _facade_ is," he added curtly, folding his arms across his chest, and immediately regretting the action. His chest still ached from the burn, and his hands were honestly killing him. Every time he moved them, he felt the skin around his knuckles pulling and threatening to split open once more. He grimaced at the pain, the action earning an automatic scoff from his brother.

"You see? This is exactly what I'm talking about!" Sam stated, his right hand defecting from the steering wheel and gesturing towards Dean. "You always act like nothing can hurt you, and that you're always perfectly fine, but you're not! When are you going to realize that you're not invincible, Dean? Huh? When are you going to see that you're just a human being like the rest of us mere mortals?" There was sarcasm edged deep within the end of Sam's last sentence, and a quiet bitterness that made the anger that was building in the middle Winchester dissolve slightly.

"I don't think I'm invincible, Sam," Dean replied. His voice was hushed, as though it actually hurt to admit to having something that even closely resembled a weakness. "You shouldn't worry about me." That part was murmured, damn near inaudible thanks to the rumbling of the engine, and the fierce wind that was blowing against the vehicle.

Dean trained his vision on the world outside the Impala, not wanting to see the expression on his little brother's face. Sam just didn't realize that it wasn't his job to worry about him. Dean was the older brother—the worrier, not the other way around. Sam didn't need to know or care, for that matter, if he was hurt. His pain was just a useless distraction that kept his brother from focusing on the task at hand, and that was something that they could both do without. They were about to catch the thing that killed their mom, and that was what all the attention should be on. Dean would get by; he always had. He'd have a few more scars mapped out on his flesh, sure, but they wouldn't matter in the end. They never did before.

Why now?

Hell, why ever?

Dean's train of thought was interrupted when he felt the car jerk to one side, and suddenly a flood of memories from years past cascaded through his mind. He recalled all the times when his father had done the same damned thing just to draw his attention, because at the time, it wouldn't have mattered how loudly he had yelled, Dean wouldn't have known, wouldn't have heard.

And now Sam was doing the exact same thing.

Only, he could hear his little brother's fury as he began to yell, making his skin crawl and heart pound in his chest. "Is it because he's back? Is that what it is? Is your self-esteem so low that you think I should just ignore you like he did?"

Dean swallowed thickly, eyes narrowed, right hand gripping the door panel; it was the same stance he'd grown accustomed to years before, and it had snapped right back into his psyche as though he'd never stopped doing it.

"Answer me, dammit!" And Dean was sure he heard hurt in his little brother's voice, but he stayed quiet, body hunched in on itself, as though he were instinctively ready for the strike that was about to come, but never did.

Of course it hadn't, because this was Sam, not their father. Sam wouldn't pull off to the side of the road, get out of the car, and then proceed to beat the shit of him. Sam wouldn't throw him against the Impala so hard that he'd leave a dent. Sam wouldn't stand there after all was said and done and tell him what a miserable, pathetic fucking son he was.

"Dean." And Sam sounded desperate, so desperate that it hurt to hear. "I'm not him."

Those three words, those three simple words awoke Dean from his stupor. He felt hot tears spring to his eyes, but blinked them away as fast as they had come.

"I know," Dean murmured, finally finding his voice again. "I know," he repeated a little louder, letting go of the side panel and straightening his back out. He was sure Sam nodded in acknowledgment next to him, but he still couldn't force his gaze towards him. "Sorry, Sammy."

"You don't have to apologize, Dean," Sam said, voice taking on a more delicate tone. An uneasy silence drifted between them until he heard Sam's jacket ruffle quietly, music drifting through the speakers as he turned the volume up. "It's gonna be a long ride, so if you want to rest, I'll do my best to avoid any bumps," Sam stated, hopefulness in his tone.

Dean nodded and leaned further back into the seat, eyes watching the trees and the sky and the white-dotted lines pass by. He wanted to sleep—he really did—he just didn't think he'd be able to. He'd caught an hour or so the night before, keeping watch over Sam while their father slept in the room next to them, but that was about it.

He still couldn't shake the ill-fated feeling he had. The air felt thicker, like it was honestly harder to breathe, but he knew that was a foolish thought. The air was the same as it ever was, invisible and always there.

One side of his lips quirked up at that. He never thought he could compare himself to air, but damn if it wasn't the truth. He _was_ always there—for his father, for Sam, for anyone that needed him—but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it was the exact opposite for them.

When his father had been beating his ass to kingdom come because Sam wasn't around anymore; every time their father would leave them for a hunt, and he'd have to watch over his little brother—he was the constant in those equations, and his family the variables. His smirk grew a bit wider at that—Sam's eyes would probably shoot right out of his skull if he knew Dean actually had a clue as to what algebra was and how it worked.

"What's so funny?" Sam's confused voice filtered through his thoughts, drawing Dean out and away from them.

"Nothin'," he lied, shaking his head while trying to get more comfortable, gaze falling on the clouds and the lightning that lit them up. Thunder rumbled distantly in his ears, as well as his kid brother's voice again.

"If you say so..."

Then, there was the invisible part.

He had felt that way often, especially in the last fifteen years of his life.

All throughout school, no one honestly noticed him, and the few that did were the assholes that liked to bully and make fun of him.

If his little brother was angry or upset with him, he instantly became like one of the ghosts they hunted, ignored and cast away, forgotten about until something was needed from him.

He shook his head, recalling the time his father had forgotten him at a diner, leaving him there until the man and Sam returned a half an hour, still arguing over why they had to move for the third time in three months. John hadn't even said he was sorry, and Sam—well, Sam just pretended like it hadn't happened.

Always there and invisible—that was something he was going to have to change. And soon.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Dean sat bolt upright, a stinging in his right cheek as though he'd been slapped. He looked around, puzzled when he found himself to be in a motel room instead of the Impala.

"What the hell...?" he murmured, rubbing his cheek as he glanced around the room. It looked like the typical room they stayed in; clean, sparsely decorated, and just big enough for Sam to pace through when he had a problem to work out. "Sam!" he called out.

He received no response.

"Sam!" he tried again, and forced himself up and off the bed. It was hard though. His legs felt as though they were made of lead instead of the skin and bone and muscle that they actually consisted of. "Sam, this isn't funny! I told you to wake me up...not carry my ass in here..."

The hotel room remained silent, as well as the world outside of it.

"Where the hell are they?"

Fear stabbed him straight in the chest as his words echoed in his head.

_They left you behind...because you're useless. _

He shook his head, scrubbing a hand across his face as he stood up. His body ached, from his legs to his chest; he just felt sore. He cast the feeling off, supposing that it was just from the long car ride, but inwardly, he knew better. He'd driven down plenty of endless roads full of more miles than he liked to count, and he'd never felt this bad after something as simple as a ride.

Painstakingly, he made his way over to the window, drawing up the curtain as he peered out. The parking lot was empty, not a car in sight.

Fear wound itself up tight in his gut, making the muscles clench as he immediately went for the door. He grasped the handle, only to find that no matter how hard he tugged on the metal piece, the door wouldn't budge.

He was locked in the room.

_Shit._

His heartbeat pounded in his ears (_thu-thump,thu-thump,thu-thump)_ as he pulled his hand away from the knob as though he'd been burned.

"You can't escape, Dean. There _is_ no way out."

He jerked his head towards the sound of the voice, unable to place just exactly who it belonged to. It sounded familiar, yet foreign at the same time.

"Who's there?" he demanded, anger flooding through him, but not replacing the fear that was currently sweeping up and down his spine. He could feel his body trembling, and no matter how many times he told himself to stop, the shaking continued. "Who the fuck is there?" he shouted, turning around, only to be met with a still empty hotel room.

"This is where you'll stay now," the voice told him, the sound resonating in his ears, chilling him to the bone. "This is your new home."

"Yeah, I don't think so," he stated incredulously, eyes darting around the room. After a moment, he finally caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The bathroom door was closed, but the light appeared to be on inside it, and with it came shadows gliding across the floor. "Gotcha," he mumbled, forcing himself to run over to it, the weighted feeling hitting him tenfold. It felt like he was moving in slow motion, and there didn't seem to be a damned thing he could do to stop it. It wasn't long before pain started to shoot through his legs, gradually making its way up past his hips and stomach, and then spreading throughout his arms and chest. He grit his teeth, but kept moving forward, finally managing to throw the bathroom door open.

The room itself was empty, not a soul to be seen in it. Confusion snaked through Dean's brain, and suddenly, it felt hard to breathe.

It took every ounce of strength he had to drag himself over to the sink, praying that the cold water that would come out of the faucet might offer some relief. With quivering hands, he turned the knob, but what came out wasn't water.

It was thick and black and oozing from the rickety steel faucet, staining the white porcelain sink below it as it spewed out. Dean gaped in shock, a sick feeling burning the pit of his stomach.

"There's my boy," the voice cooed, and Dean looked up, staring at his reflection in the mirror. It was smiling back at him, impossibly white teeth gleaming from between his lips.

His brow narrowed, dread overcoming his features.

"Hey, Deano, it's been awhile," his reflection said, and as Dean continued to stare at it, he saw that his reflection was not alone, for on the other side of the mirror, he could see Sam and his father talking behind him, seated at the motel table.

Dean glanced behind him, the room still empty and silent.

"No, no, no," he murmured, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. "This isn't real, this is just a dream," he stated to himself, shaking his head.

"Oh, my sweet little demon toy, it's not. This is as real as it gets, I'm afraid," not-Dean said, green eyes turning to black. It's grin grew wider, more ominous.

"No, no, there's no fucking way!" Dean could hear his voice raising, feel his throat constricting as realization hit him fast and hard. His heart continued to pound, pound, pound away in his chest, the sound of his blood rushing through his ears as it beat faster and faster, consumed by fear, hate, and confusion.

"Aw, Dean, you're scared. That's so cute!" the demon beamed at him from the mirror.

Dean stared at his reflection in horror. It was wearing his clothes, his face, his eyes—and worst of all—his skin.

"Oh, Dean, don't you remember all those months ago when I said, 'Try as you might, you'll never get rid of me?' Well, guess what? I wasn't lying." And the expression on its face turned to one of fierce anger. "I promised you that, remember?"

Dean shook his head furiously, hot, wet tears burning his eyes. "This just a dream," he said through clenched teeth, slim fingers gripping the counter top. "This is just a dream, and when I wake up-"

"Oh, no, no, no," not-Dean scolded him. "I hate to be the one to break this to you, Deano, but there won't be any waking up from this dream. Like I said, this is your new home, where you're going to live out the rest of your days while I wear your pretty little meatsuit like it was my own. Don't you see?" it asked, "You're trapped."

"Fuck you!" Dean shouted, his lead-like arm punching the reflective glass. The skin on his knuckles split apart like a rotten fruit that had been stepped on, blood beginning to pour from the wounds.

The demon laughed at him from the other side of the mirror, something deep and throaty, and un-Dean like. "You're so damned cute when you bleed, Deano. Blood looks good on you, you know."

"Once I get out of here, I'm going to make you pay, you bitch," Dean growled, holding onto his wounded right hand with his left, a copious amount of blood slipping through it and dropping onto the floor.

It's face turned serious again, and it _tsked _at Dean's words. "Threats will do you no good, Dean. You know better than that," and before Dean knew it, there was an arm reaching from the mirror and pulling him forward. His face collided with the glass hard, and it wasn't long before he felt something warm streaming down his face. "I'm going to rid the world of you, Dean Winchester, once and for all. But before I do, I'll make sure you get to watch your daddy and precious little brother go before you." He cringed, feeling its warm breath hit his cheek as it spoke, and it reeked of sulfur. "You see, I've become a much better actor since the last time we met, and I can promise you this, neither one of them is going to know until it's much, much too late. And all the while I'll be out here, wreaking havoc in your name, you'll be stuck in there, just a mere little spectator to the events going on in the outside world."

"Fuck you," Dean managed to spit out, the broken glass cutting his lip open as his flesh brushed against it.

"No, Deano, this time you're the one that's getting fucked. And there's not a goddamned thing you'll be able to do about it."

It released him from it's grip, and he collapsed against the sink, it being the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor.

"Ta-ta for now. In the meantime, I'll let you have a bird's eye view of the action," it said, and all at once, the image on the mirror changed, and Dean was looking out of it's eyes—_his_ eyes. His skin crawled as he watched with mute horror as he heard Sam's voice, and suddenly there was his little brother, staring up at him from the table, asking if he was alright. Then he heard himself reply, "I will be once we catch this thing."

All he could wonder was how in the fuck this had happened.

_You'll find out soon enough_, the demon's voice replied inside his head. And Dean screamed when he heard it, screamed until his voice gave out, and he collapsed to the cold, hard floor, unable to do anything but listen as it spoke.

It wasn't long before darkness washed over his eyes, and he let it consume him, not caring how temporary it would be.

He had to find a way out.

Before it was too late.

**A/N- I tried to do two updates in May, but unfortunately, it just didn't happen. Anyway, MANY THANKS goes to Stryder2008, Babyreaper, HPSmallCharm29, Akira, dandy44, Glades of Grey, SupernaturalCheetahFast, Cutiepi97, and the rest of you who are still continuing to follow this story. I hope you're enjoying it, and this chapter sufficed. Until next time...**


	16. Castle of Glass

**The Illusionist II**

**Chapter 16 : Castle of Glass**

It was around eight o'clock Friday night when they finally made it into Manning, and another twenty minutes before they arrived at Elkins' cabin. Sam had followed their father road after twisting,winding road when they eventually stopped. Sam turned the car off, glancing over at Dean before he got out. His brother looked apprehensive, eyes darting back and forth between the cabin and their father.

Sam could only imagine what Dean must have been feeling, so he tried his best to put himself in front of his brother whenever their father hopped out of his truck.

The more distance between the two of them, the better. Though Sam wondered if he himself could handle it. They'd managed only one argument in the twelve hundred miles they drove, and he figured Dean was probably considering that a win.

It wasn't though.

It was taking every single fiber of Sam's being not to let loose on the man. His mind had been racing ever since they'd left Minnesota, and he'd gotten little sleep at the one motel stop they did make. His brain just wouldn't shut down, too many images of dreams and nightmares past keeping him company.

He wondered how the hell their father could live with himself. After all the things he'd done to Dean, he honestly didn't understand how the man could even look him in the eye. Though, Sam did notice, their father barely even batted an eyelash at the middle Winchester. Even when Dean was speaking, the older man made sure to put his focus on something else, and every time Sam saw him do that, he wanted to punch him.

It wasn't easy restraining himself, and he had the marks on his bottom lip and tongue to prove it. He'd bitten his tongue (literally and figuratively) so many times, he wasn't sure how many he had left in him. He saw the way their father watched Dean when he ate (what little he ate), and how he didn't say a word about the amount. Dean hadn't even really touched his food at the pit stops they did make, and Sam wanted to get angry—hell, who was he kidding, he _was_ angry—but in a way, he understood it too. It only made sense that Dean would be even more afraid to eat when their father was around, because he was the reason for it in the first place.

The thought made Sam clench his fists, his too-long nails digging into the flesh of his palms and leaving little crescents in their wake. No matter how long he was to avoid it, he was pretty damned positive that by the end of their current excursion, his he and his father would come to blows.

"Are you sure he's here?" Dean's voice cut through the silence of the night. Dusk had fallen a few hours before, and the sky was clear and black, only the stars cutting through its thick, dark blanket. There were no lights outside the cabin, none that Sam could see. He glanced up, brow creasing as he noticed there had been a porch light, but it was broken.

"Something's wrong," the brunette stated, pointing at the broken glass that lay underneath the light socket.

"Step back," John immediately said, casting an arm out. The action caught Dean off guard, and he reacted instantly, flinching to the side and bumping right into Sam.

"You okay?" Sam asked, worried eyes staring into his brother's fearful ones as he laid a firm hand on Dean's shoulder, to steady him. The smallest Winchester tensed under his grasp, and backed away, mumbling an irritated, "I'm fine."

Sam's immediate reaction to those two words was normally a roll of the eyes, but he kept himself in check, and settled for shifting his position so that he was directly in front of Dean now.

John circled back to his truck, retrieved his sawed-off and a flashlight, and came back to the porch. "Stay behind me," he ordered, gaze mostly on Sam as he handed him the flashlight.

The brunette nodded, reluctance in his posture. He'd had a bad feeling about this place ever since their father had mentioned it, and as John warily opened the unlocked front door, the feeling grew stronger. Something was most definitely wrong, he thought, and as they all stepped inside, he could see why.

The interior of the cabin was a complete and total mess. There were books and tools and furniture strewn about everywhere, definite signs of a struggle. As they all edged closer to the center of the chaos, Sam could see the blood that littered the floor. There were puddles and streaks of the crimson substance everywhere. It was clear that whoever had lost it was probably not amongst the living any longer.

"I don't think your friend is here anymore," Dean's voice cut through the silence, fear and uncertainty evident in his tone.

John sighed, and stood down, letting the gun fall slack at his side. He looked thoughtful for a moment before heading to the area where his friend's large desk was flipped upside down.

Sam followed after him as John started to dig through the debris. "Shine that over here, will you?" he said, impatience and irritation heavy in his tone.

Sam did as he was told all with a clenched jaw and iron grip on the flashlight handle. He remained silent, vigilant eyes watching as Dean started to dig around as well. Objects clattered to the floor as both his brother and father tossed them down, tearing through pile after pile until Dean finally stood still, a small wooden box in his hands. Before he could even open it, John was there, ripping it from his grasp.

The older man opened it, brow narrowing as his eyes fell on a mostly empty container. Their were still five bullets left in the casing, though the gun was gone. "That bastard did have it, all this time," he muttered, dark eyes gleaming dangerously as they scanned the mess once more.

"I thought you said he was ready and willing to give it to you—that he knew we were coming?" Sam questioned, all the disdain he felt for his father bleeding out into his voice. "You lied, didn't you? He had no clue we'd be here! What the hell have you gotten us into?" Sam shouted, seething now.

"No, he knew we—I was coming. I did contact him, and I told him I'd be here," John stated, still clenching the empty box.

"Well, who the hell else did you let on in this little venture, _Dad_? Because it sure as hell looks like someone beat you to it!" Sam's heartbeat was visible in his throat now, the anger he was feeling making his fingertips tingle. He felt his hands twitching, the urge to punch his father square across the jaw coming back tenfold.

"No one else knew," John ground out, his voice sounding even rougher and more gravelly than before.

"Dad." And this time it was Dean's voice cutting through the darkness, sounding scared and unsure. Both of the other Winchester's ignored it, continuing on with their argument.

"Obviously someone did!" Sam retorted, gesturing towards the ransacked cabin.

"And I'm telling you, no one else knew!" John shouted back, inching a step closer towards his youngest son.

"Sam." It was Dean again, pleading in his tone, yet once again, neither man paid him attention.

"What? Are you gonna hit me now?" Sam taunted, daring to look his father straight in the eye. "Feel those old urges coming back? Huh?"

"Shut up, Sam. That's an order," John commanded, tight-lipped, quiet voice filled with contained fury.

"You think you can say those three words, and I'm just supposed to automatically listen? Well, I hate to break it to you, but I'm not some robot that's gonna do everything thing you _order_ me to! I'm your son, not a soldier on the battlefield that you can command!"

"Sam," and there was warning in John's tone, warning that Sam cared to ignore. Instead, he kept on.

"You drag us out here to the middle of nowhere, and for what? An empty box that supposedly had a magical gun in it that could kill anything? I can't believe we actually listened to you aga-"

"STOP!"

Both men fell silent at Dean's voice, both pairs of eyes darting over to where he stood, a journal that looked a hell of a lot like John's resting in his hands. His green eyes were glimmering in the faint light cast from the flashlight as he looked back and forth between them. "I found something," he said, and this time his voice was so quiet, both men could barely hear it.

Dean took a few steps forward and held the open book in front them, a bandaged hand pointing to the last passage in it.

It wasn't written like all the other scribbles of black ink and tiny, pained-looking writing. There was only one word there—_lamia—_spelled out in fading red.

"Shit!" John cursed, running a hand through his hair.

"For being vamps, they sure left behind a lot of blood," Dean commented quietly, staring at the drying substance on the floor.

"That's because they weren't actually here to suck his blood," Sam stated, glare falling on his father once more. "They knew about the Colt too."

"And now we have to get it back," John said finitely, already heading for the door, box still in hand.

Sam stood there for a moment, anger still coursing through his veins when Dean's voice cut off his train of thought. "Let's go, Sammy." Sam jerked his head in his brother's direction. He was standing in front of him, unsure look on his face as he stared at him, green eyes still gleaming with wariness. "C'mon."

Sam pursed his lips and nodded, leading the way out of the disheveled cabin.

"Where to now?" Sam asked, standing next to the driver's side door of the Impala, looking to his father, still clutching the flashlight in his hand.

The oldest Winchester placed his gun and the empty box on his passenger side before replying. "We'll find a motel and regroup. Then we'll figure out where the damn nest is at. Shouldn't be too hard," he said before climbing into the truck.

"Yeah, nothing's ever too hard with you around," Sam mumbled bitingly.

"Sam, please stop."

Sam glanced over at his older brother, the guilt that he'd pushed away before coming back and hitting him full force in the chest. Dean looked so damned _sad_, so lost, and so small; and Sam felt his heart breaking all over again.

It wasn't like he wasn't trying—he truly was. Their father just made it so damned hard. The man had no regard for them or their well being. All he cared about was the next mission.

And Sam knew the shit was important. He really did, but at what cost would it come?

The sound of one of the Impala's doors closing snapped him from his reverie, and he hurriedly got into the driver's side. He started the car up, the engine roaring to life as cool air poured out of the vents. He glanced at Dean, taking note of just how badly his brother was shaking.

John pulled off, but Sam didn't follow. He sat there, hands on the wheel, watching the black truck grow smaller and smaller.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, confusion on his visage as he stared at Sam.

"Waiting for the car to warm up," Sam stated simply, glancing over at him. The shadows cast from the moonlight on his brother's cheeks make them look all the more hollow and haunted, and the thought of just driving away and leaving their father to look for the Colt on his own sounded far too tempting. But he knew his brother would never let him do that.

Dean wanted revenge for their mother, just as badly as he wanted revenge for Jessica. He just hated the fact that they had to work with their father to get it.

"Why?" Dean's voice once again cut him off from his train of thoughts.

"I don't know. Just...felt like it is all," Sam lied, unable to tell Dean the truth. He knew his brother hated showing any sign of weakness, and shivering like a wet kitten was pretty high up there on his list of things not to do in front of Sammy. It was a fairly long list, one Sam had down pat.

"It'll warm up just fine if you drive it," Dean said, unconvinced.

"Do you honestly want to keep doing this?" Sam asked, unable to keep his thoughts to himself. He stared straight ahead at the now empty road, John's truck already gone from sight.

"Keep doing what?" Dean asked, a sliver of annoyance in his tone. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the noise barely audible above the purr of the engine.

"Following him? I mean, if this gun actually exists, why don't we just look for it ourselves?" Sam slowly let his gaze drift from the road to his brother who was currently staring at him with a look of disbelief.

"Sam, I know you can't stand him, I do, but this isn't just our fight. He might not win any father of the year awards, but Dad lost someone too. And we can't just let him do it on his own. Or on our own, for that matter. We need each other." Sam heard the conviction in his brother's voice, hating it just as much as he hated the reasoning it held as well. "I mean, c'mon, an entire pack of vamps? There's no way either of us alone could take one out. We'd get killed in the process. We have to work together. There's no other way."

"Right," Sam said, swallowing thickly as he shifted out of park and began to drive down the road. He could always count on his brother to make him feel guilty, somehow even for their father which seemed wrong on so many levels.

It didn't take him long to catch up to John; the man had waited for them, the black truck parked right in the middle of the pitch black gravel road a mile or so away from the cabin. Once their headlights had come into view, the truck started moving again, leading them down the mountain and back into town.

The rest of the car ride had remained silent as they reached the motel John had picked. The place was a bit different than the majority of the places they stayed at. Instead of long rows of rooms connected to one another, this one had tiny one-room cabins lined up next to each other. Sam parked along side his father and exited the Impala.

"Stay here, I'll grab us a room," John stated, already making his way to the office.

Sam nodded. He rubbed his hands together, but not because he was cold. He was anxious, and still on edge, and as he glanced in the car at Dean, he saw that his brother was too. He didn't miss the way Dean's gaze followed their father, staying on him the entire time the man was getting them a room, all the way until he came back outside.

"103," John said, nodding towards one of the small cabins to their left as he tossed Sam the keys.

The younger hunter caught them with ease, a questioning look on his face. "Just one room?" he asked, brow quirked in curiosity.

"That's all we need," John answered simply, and started unloading his belongings out of the truck.

"Of course it is," Sam muttered, and grabbed his pack out of the backseat, Dean doing the same. "You got it?" Sam asked, noticing the grimace that crossed his brother's face as he hefted his duffel out of the back and across his shoulder.

"'m fine," Dean answered, limp still detectable as he headed towards their room.

"As always," Sam murmured under his breath as he followed him with John in tow. He slipped the key into the lock, then stepped back to let his brother and father inside. Naturally, Dean stepped back as well, head hung and gaze on the ground as John went in first. "Go on," Sam said softly, holding the door open for his brother. Without a word, Dean did as he was told and stepped across the threshold. Sam followed, closing the door behind him.

The room was small, but it was equipped with two beds, a stove, a sink, and a fridge, which would all come in handy just in case they were stuck there for a little while. Sam though, hoped they weren't. There would only be so much space he could put between himself and his father in there. Three people crowded into one small space was a recipe for disaster, but his father never listened to anyone but himself, so it was no use trying to talk reason to the man.

"Why don't you two try to catch some sleep. I'm gonna set up the radio. I'll wake you if I hear anything," John said, once again, gaze focused mostly on Sam.

The youngest Winchester was really beginning to hate the obvious showcase of attention his father was giving him, and he wanted to scream at the man, and tell him to address his other son at least once, but he was pretty sure that Dean would hate him for that so he kept his mouth shut. Instead, he forced himself to nod, and set his stuff down on the bed closest to the center of the room. Dean took the one nearest to the door, and set his duffel down. Without a word, he laid down on the bed, not even bothering to kick his boots off.

Sam watched as he turned on his side, facing the door.

The brunette sighed and finally sat down on the edge of his bed, hands folding in his lap as he glanced at his father and the clock on the nightstand. It read _10:35 P.M._ He honestly didn't know if he'd be able to fall asleep—he was still high-strung and unable to rid himself of the tension that seemed to follow them wherever they went. He ran a hand through his hair, and decided it would be best just to close his eyes even if it was for only a few minutes. Leaving his shoes on, he laid back with his head on the too firm pillow and closed his eyes, the faint sounds of a police radio running through his head as he drifted off to sleep.

S*P*N*S*P*N

He'd banged on the doors and windows for what seemed like hours, but he wasn't sure because the clock on the nightstand stayed at _8:36PM_ the entire time. His whole body hurt, pain radiating through all his nerve endings, but he ignored it and continued in his attempt to beat his way out. The door didn't budge and inch, and not even the glass in the windows rattled. His hands were bloodied, but he kept on and on until a voice cut through the air.

_"I should've gotten rid of you when I had the chance."_

He recognized it instantly as his father's, head jerking back as he looked for its origin.

_"I-I'm sorry, sir. __I've been trying to be better...for Sammy. I've been trying..." _

And that—that was him. He brow narrowed in confusion, fear beginning to tingle up and down his spine.

_"Obviously not hard enough." _

He froze, recollection of that particular conversation coming back to him. He felt his body begin to shake and tremble—the movements sending tiny pricks of pain throughout his nervous system. He grit his teeth, but the pain still came, electrocuting his arms and legs and torso.

_"Drown you like the pathetic, useless dog that you are." _

He remembered that part all too well, remembered the way his father's rough hands had gripped his loose clothes so tightly it hurt...

It was then that he realized that the grim daylight that had been casting a faint glow from the windows was gone, replaced with darkness. With hesitant steps, he stood in front of the glass, watching as the scene that he was hearing played out before him. Horror danced in his eyes as he watched his father cast him into the lake, his screams of, _"Dad, no! Please, I'm your son!" _falling on deaf ears.

It was at that moment, that Dean felt the sudden rush of bitter coldness wash over him, and he could feel the water, wet and freezing soak his bone-chilled body. He was choking on icy cold water that wasn't there, the murky substance invading his lungs and airways. He grabbed a hold of the window sill, doubling over as it grew harder and harder to stay upright.

With pressure building in his skull, he forced himself to peer out of the window, even as the feeling of drowning started to overcome him.

It was then that he saw his father fall to his knees at the edge of the lake, eyes rolling into the back of his head as his mouth opened wide, a black, smoky substance pouring out of it and rushing through the air towards him.

He gasped at the impact, and all at once, the chill of the water was gone, replaced with a dark bleakness so deep, he felt even more weighed down that before. He sank to his knees, and leaned his head against the glass, a sick feeling rising from the pit of his stomach.

With his head bowed, he heard the muffled sounds of his father groaning, then yelling at someone. Using all the strength he had, he forced his gaze from the floor to outside the window again, and watched as his father fought with someone. He wasn't positive, but it looked like one of the Benders. They exchanged a few blows before John had managed to knock the other man out. Then, much to Dean's surprise, his father began to reach for him, grasping him by his wet clothes and pulling him forward. Just before the scene faded, he watched his little brother come into view, and then before he knew it, the empty parking lot was back, with its gray, overcast sky, and desolate, looming loneliness.

"No, no, this can't be right," he murmured, the taste of vomit on his tongue as he shook his head, fingers trying but unable to grasp a hold of the wall. "Not again."

Dean didn't recall the first time he'd been possessed at all. However, he didn't forget the feeling he was left with afterward. And it was now that he realized, as breath rushed in and out of his lungs, that he had been in this motel room before; when he'd been possessed the first time, and also when he was nine years old, when he'd passed out and woken up in a hospital room without his hearing.

"Deja vous's a sonuvabitch, ain't it?" The amused voice of the demon came from out of nowhere, resonating through his head. (Hell, it was using his voice now, and that just made it all the worse.)

He clenched his jaw at the noise, hands turning into fists at his sides.

"Ol' Johnny boy was so obsessed with finding that demon that killed your mother that he didn't even see me coming this time. It was beautiful. It really was," the voice reminisced mockingly, and the urge to vomit burning the back of his throat.

Dean stayed quiet, trying desperately to keep his emotions in check, but as the demon continued to speak, he knew his actions were fruitless. It was going to get the better of him whether he liked it or not.

"He was so close to finding it too, when he found me instead." It laughed, and Dean wrapped his hands around his ears, but he still heard it. There was no blocking it out.

It was everywhere.

"Aw, Deano, am I upsetting you?" It laughed again, and he wanted to scream and tell it to shut the fuck up, but he grit his teeth, and squeezed his eyes tight instead.

"Oh, trust me, what's going to happen in the coming days is going to upset you more. The possibilities are endless," and it chuckled again, the sound echoing off the walls. "See, you're gonna screw up at some point on this hunt that your daddy has configured. Once that happens, I predict that big bad John is going to be so upset, that he slips and hits you. And that, in turn, is going to set off your baby brother. Then, there's gonna be a big fight, and it's gonna be marvelous! Don't you think?"

When Dean didn't reply, the demon's voice turned malevolent.

"That gun your daddy wants? He's going to get it. I'll see to that happening. However, just when he thinks everything's going to come together, it's all going to fall apart. And I'll make sure you're the one's that responsible. So sit back and enjoy the show, Deano, cause it's gonna be one long, bumpy ride."

It was at that moment, a high piercing noise broke through the air, and Dean felt his blood run cold at the sound.

It was one that he was quite familiar with. Along with his little brother's cries, it had been the last thing he had heard before he went deaf.

It rose in pitch before becoming damn near unbearable to hear. Then, all it once, it stopped, and he was left with nothing but silence.

S*P*N*S*P*N

John stared at the radio blankly as voices came and went, but none specifying what he was looking for. A car was needed at 1342 Dunham Ave. for a possible robbery, another at 653 Sixth Street for a domestic altercation, but other than that, there hadn't been any activity. None indicating vampires anyway.

His gaze drifted from the table to the beds, his boys laid out on both, still fully clothed, just in case they needed to get up in a hurry. Sam was flat on his back, hands resting at his sides, a look of anger and frustration still on his face even while he was resting. Dean was laying on his side with his back to them, and as John stared at him, he couldn't fight the guilt that overwhelmed him.

While the boy was awake, John had forced himself to avoid the kid's eyes, not wanting to see the pain and fear that he had caused staring back at him.

John was scared though, but he didn't let it show. Hell, he couldn't let it show.

One minute, he'd been on the trail of the demon that he knew had killed his wife, the next, he was standing in front of a lake in the middle of Minnesota, Dean floating in the water looking more dead than alive.

He wasn't quite sure what had happened, but the voice inside his head told him it couldn't have been good.

He'd been on his way to Colorado to talk to Elkins about the Colt, had stopped somewhere in Iowa for a bite to eat, and then he drew nothing but a blank. He had his boys with him now, sure, but at what cost? The thought terrified him, and he knew it could honestly only mean one thing, but he didn't want to think about it. Didn't even want to consider the possibility that he'd been possessed again.

But there was no other reason that he could think of for his blackout.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, his eyes fixed on his oldest son. He didn't miss how easy it had been to pull his kid from the water. Even soaked and wet, Dean was too easy to maneuver. And who was to blame for that? He knew. God, did he know. He'd seen the meager amount Dean had been surviving off of, and he hadn't even said a word about it. Just let it continue on, even though he knew better. The kid was starving himself, and he just let him. What kind of father was he? Not much of one, he knew.

John knew there was no way in hell he would ever be able to redeem himself. He'd fucked up far too many times for that. The only thing he hoped for was that, together, they could catch the demon that killed Mary and Jessica.

Even though he knew it was too late to bring any kind of peace to his soul, maybe it could bring some for his sons.

His gaze drifted back to Sam, brow narrowing as he thought about how they'd almost come to blows earlier. The kid fought him tooth and nail, and yet, was more like him than he cared to admit. Both had stubborn streaks longer than the Mississippi, and both fought for what they thought was right, regardless of what anyone else had to say in the matter. He wished, for just a moment, that they could just speak instead of shouting at each other. But John wasn't stupid. He knew there was already too much animosity between them for any kind of reconciliation. Sam was going to hate him for as long as he lived, and a part of him wondered just how long that might be. And, of course, that was his fault as well.

"_Unit 22, let me confirm. Mile marker 41, abandoned car. You need a workup?" _The voice of the dispatcher roused him from his thoughts.

"_Copy that. Possible 207. Better get forensics out here."_

Shit, this was exactly what he was waiting for. "Boys!" he called out as he pulled his jacket on.

Sam stirred immediately, sitting bolt upright; Dean, however, didn't.

"Get your brother up, it's time to go," John ordered, and went out the door, unable to even bring himself to touch Dean. It wasn't less than a minute later before both of his sons were bustling out the door, heading for the Impala. He motioned for Sam to follow him, and sped out of the parking lot, hoping in the back of his mind that they weren't going on a wild goose chase.

He had to find that damned gun.

For Mary.

For Jessica.

For his sons.

**A/N – Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews, and for sticking with me for so long. MANY THANKS goes to : MysteryMadchen, CrazyDreamin, babyreaper, Stryder2008, HPSmallCharm29, jazzy2may, dandy44, renniespice, kissacazador, and everyone who has faved or is following this story. I can't thank you all enough, and hope this chapter sufficed. Until next time...**


	17. The Crow

**The Illusionist II**

**Chapter 17 : The Crow**

Dean sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, arms looped around his legs, a far away look set in his eyes. He felt cold, so damned cold, but now he knew that it was just a superficial chill. None of this place was actually real. He was just trapped inside his own mind while that _thing_ used his body.

And there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it, but just sit back and watch.

The thought made him angry, and without thinking, he threw his head back against the wall, frustration running rampant through his veins. His hands seized into fists when he realized he hadn't even heard the thump. Tears burned his eyes, and he forced himself up into a standing position, hating the fact that it still felt like he was wearing fifty pound weights on his limbs.

"_Always a crybaby, aren't you, Dean?" _He grit his teeth at the voice, green eyes aflame with rage. _"Aw, look at you, getting so mad. Just adorable!" _It laughed, and the sound only made him even more furious. _"We really need to get you a sense of humor, don't we? Liven you up a little bit."_

Dean opened his mouth to scream at it, but when he did, nothing came out. He couldn't even feel the vibration on his vocal chords. There was nothing. Just silence.

"_You know, Dean, if I stay here long enough, I might just become a part of you. Hell, you might not want me to leave. After I kill little Sammy and ol' Johnny boy, I may just stay in your meatsuit. How's that sound, Deano?"_

Dean grit his teeth so hard, he was sure they were going to fall out.

"_Well, I've had enough of playing with you for now. Besides, it's showtime!" _the demon declared excitedly, and the door to the bathroom flew open, smacking against the wall._ "Come on down, Dean! Your daddy just so happened to find where those pesky vamps were hiding out, and we gotta get that Colt back now, don't we? How 'bout I let you listen in? Would you like that? Of course, you would."_

Sadness flashed across Dean's eyes as he heard his father's voice. "Remember, just in case you two forgot," and Dean just knew Sam had rolled his eyes at that line. "Beheading them is the only way to kill them."

"_Come on, Dean...you know you wanna see what's gonna happen_," his own voice taunted him, and without realizing it, he drew nearer and nearer to the bathroom until he was standing in the doorway, the mirror his only connection to the actual outside world.

There, he saw his brother and father, standing in a wooded area, just outside what looked to be a long abandoned house. The place was falling apart, boards cracked and mildewed, hanging on by a thread. There were also numerous cars parked in front of the joint, including an old Camero.

"So..." he heard himself begin to say, and couldn't help but be overwhelmed by anger. Because it wasn't him talking, dammit! "I guess walking right in there isn't exactly the best option." The demon made sure to speak softly, only magnifying the fact of just how insecure he truly was.

"Actually," and for the first time since they'd reunited, his father was responding to him. No—not him, the demon. "That's the plan." The demon made sure to put on a surprised face, one that Dean wasn't privy too. He tried so hard to control a piece of his body—even a pinky finger—but nothing. Nothing happened when he thought about it. The bitch had taken complete control over his system, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

"Seriously?" Dean felt his chest ache at his brother's voice, the animosity that it held ever present and clear. "We're just gonna waltz right in there like we own the place, and not expect them to do a damned thing about it?"

"It's daylight. They'll be asleep," John replied matter-of-factly, brow narrowing at his son's defiance.

"They could still wake up!" Sam said, posture transforming from neutral to defensive.

"If you keep raising your voice like that, they will," John ground out angrily.

"I don't believe this..." Sam mumbled, taking a few steps back from the car, shaking his head. "This has got to be the dumbest plan you've conceived yet."

"You got a better idea?" John snapped, pulling a large machete from the back compartment of his truck, the blade gleaming as he removed it from its case.

"I'm sure I could come up with something that has a lesser chance of us getting killed!" Sam returned, face taught with anger.

"It's not a bad plan. We just have to be careful, Sammy," the demon said, and Dean pounded his fist against the doorway, already seeing what the bitch was trying to do.

The look Sam gave him—the demon—was one so full of ire that the demon shrank back against the Impala.

"Really, Dean? I should've know it would only be a matter of time before you took his side. Just gonna follow him around blindly again, huh? Make it like old times?"

"Sam-"

"No!" Sam cut him off, lips curling slightly in disgust. "It's been less than a week, and you're right back at it. The good little soldier. I should've known."

"Sammy, please-"

"You know what, Dean? How about once we're done here, I'll go back to Stanford, and you two can have each other!" And with that, Sam stalked off towards the vamps nest, a knife of his own clasped tightly in his hands.

Dean felt something that time. His whole chest felt as though it had been torn open, his heart yanked out, and thrown to the floor, leaving a gaping hole where it once used to be. He fell to his knees as the demon laughed inwardly at him, heckling him to no end. _"This is working out perfectly,"_ it said to him, cackling darkly.

Dean felt tears glisten in his eyes as he shook his head, watching as his father and he followed Sam into the dilapidated building. His whole body hurt—_ached—_and he honestly couldn't believe Sam had just said that. How could things have gotten so bad between them so quickly? He shook his head, biting his bottom lip as he watched his father grab a hold of his brother and yank him backwards.

"Don't touch me!" Sam hissed, pulling his arm away.

"Go ahead and march in there like an idiot and see what happens, Sam," John said, eyes gleaming darkly as he glanced at the vamps nest, then back at his youngest son.

Sam turned around to do exactly that when John pulled him back again. "Kiddo, you're staying behind me whether you like it or not. You may not agree with this plan, or have any faith in it, but the least you're gonna do is not purposely try to get yourself killed. You got me?"

Dean watched as Sam cast his gaze at the ground, jaw clenched in anger, hand still grasping his weapon.

"Sam, please," the demon said, sounding so unbelievably Dean-like that it scared the real middle Winchester.

Sam looked over at him, then at their father and stepped back, allowing the older man to step in front of him. "Sam, once we get this gun..." John's voice trailed off as he carefully searched for his words. "Once we get the Colt..." John sighed, still unable to speak properly. "We'll discuss this later when we're not standing right outside a pack of sleeping vamps."

"Whatever," Sam mumbled, a cold expression still haunting his face.

John stared at him for a moment before finally deciding to move ahead. He led them over to a window that was clearly hanging from its hinges and opened it as quietly as he could. He stepped inside first, with Sam following, and not-Dean right behind him.

The place was cold and dusty, poorly lit with only scant streams of the sun wafting through the rotted wooden shingles. Vampires were scattered everywhere, splayed out in various positions, all appearing to be sleeping peacefully, though John was adamant that they only communicate silently due to the fact of their super-sensitive hearing.

The oldest Winchester moved forward, motioning for his boys to do so as well. Both complied, even Sam without his usual reluctance. They moved silently and stealthily, weaving through the vamps that had decided to use the floor as their bed, and past the others who had fallen asleep on hammocks that had been set up.

John signaled for them to head towards the center of the room, where one half of the couple that had been kidnapped from their car on the highway were tied up. He pointed to a room off to the side of the main one, alerting them to where he was going to go. Both boys nodded in understanding, and continued to advance towards the bound couple.

They had almost made it to the woman when not-Dean tripped over a beer bottle, the noise echoing profusely throughout the room. Both hunters stopped dead in their tracks, and Dean didn't miss the glare that Sam had sent his way, lips pursed tightly together to prevent from scolding him. A glance sent their father's way showcased the same exact thing, yet worse, and Dean could see from inside his prison some of that old anger arising in his father's eyes. It sent a cold chill throughout his being, because he knew exactly what the demon was trying to do, and was succeeding marvelously.

By nothing short of a miracle, none of the vamps stirred, too set adrift in slumber to hear not-Dean's misstep. The demon let out a silent sigh of relief, one Dean knew to be nothing more than a show, and they all resumed their mission.

Sam was the first to approach the woman. She was asleep, head hanging in an obvious state of uncomfortableness, forced into a sitting position on top of a crate with a wooden beam at her back. Her arms and legs were bound with a thick rope, one that could only be cut through with a sharp weapon. Blood littered her freshly pressed clothes as well as her skin, though Sam could see no visible bite marks. He carefully shook her awake, and Dean could see, trying his best to calm her in her state of exhausted hysteria.

While Sam took care of her, Dean watched as the demon moved away from the two, towards a cage that was behind them. It peered through, allowing Dean to see the numerous victims the vampires had acquired. They too were all bound and asleep, scattered about the cage like pieces of discarded trash. The demon moved silently as it tugged at the lock, glancing back at Sam who was too preoccupied with the woman to notice that instead of worrying about the key that hung overhead, it had used sheer strength to pry it from the chains.

Before it could open the door all the way, an inhuman scream cut through the air, startling the Winchesters and vampires alike. The howl consumed the entire building, and not-Dean reacted immediately. "Sammy, c'mon," he said urgently, grabbing Sam by his arm and dragging him away from the turned human.

Dean watched in baiting silence as the demon led Sam out of the derelict building and out into the open, the Impala and freedom only yards away. Yet there was only one problem—John was no where to be seen.

They made it up the top of the hill where the vehicles were parked, both out of breath and shaking once they reached the top. Dean noted that his little brother was clenching a hold of his shoulder as they stood there, staring at the entrance, though once Sam realized what he'd been doing, let go.

"Dad!" Not-Dean called out, voice trembling with pretend fear. "Dad!" the demon shouted once more, throwing in brokenness for good measure.

After a few more seconds had passed, finally John appeared, throwing open the front doors and rushing towards them.

"C'mon, let's go," not-Dean said, grabbing John's sleeve and pulling him forward.

John brushed his hand off, shaking his head. "They won't come after us now. It's too bright," he said, catching his breath.

"Did you get the Colt?" Sam asked, and John shook his head.

"We'll get it tonight, when they come for us," John stated, glancing back at the door to the nest. "Once they have your scent-"

"They have it for life," not-Dean finished, looking unaware that he had done so.

Both Sam and John threw a glance his way at the statement, but not-Dean shrugged it off. "'s not the first time you've said it," he mumbled, and began to fidget with the zipper on his jacket.

"So what's the plan now?" Sam asked, glancing back at the vamps that dared to venture outside. He watched as they retreated, skin burning from the light.

"Dean's going to find the nearest funeral home. We're gonna head back to the motel," John said, tone turning authoritative as he cast his gaze on Sam.

Before Sam could protest, John held his hand up, silencing him. "We need dead man's blood. It's the only way this is gonna work."

"I can go," Sam spoke up, but John shook his head.

"I want you back at the motel, just in case."

"In case of what?" Sam asked, beginning to sound offended and annoyed.

"In case of trouble," John answered, casting a glance not-Dean's way. The cloud of sadness that moved over the middle Winchester's face was immediate, the subtle truth not lost on Sam.

"Whatever," Sam muttered darkly, and threw open the door of John's black truck, slamming it shut once he was inside.

"Can you do this?" John asked, and the demon nodded solemnly. "Don't screw this up," he said, casting one last glance back at the demon before climbing into his truck and driving off.

Dean watched from inside his prison as the black truck grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared completely from sight, and he knew never before in his life had he ever felt so alone.

"So, Deano," the demon said, gaze turning back towards the vampires nest. "What do you think we should do? Hmmm? Should we barge back on in there, and set those dirty vamps straight? Or should we let this little charade play out a some more, and go grab daddy some a that dead man's blood that he wants? Decisions, decisions..."

Dean shook his head, the urge to pound his skull against the walls hitting him once more. He hated this...how weak he was. If he'd have been stronger...

"My, God, seriously?" the demon asked, obviously annoyed. "If only this, if only that, you're like a fuckin' broken record! I think it's time we spice up your life a bit, Deano. And since you're unable to take the initiative at the moment, I'll take it for you," the demon said, drawing back and clasping the handle of the Impala. "We're gonna go grab us some of that dead man's blood. But, it's gonna be nice and fresh." Not-Dean laughed darkly as threw open the door and climbed into the car, sticking the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. "Yeah, Deano, I think this is gonna be the most fun you've had in awhile." Dean watched in horror as the demon sped off down the gravel road, out of sight from the vampires nest, and towards an unknown destination.

Trees whizzed by, the landscape all but a blur as the demon sped up, going faster and faster until the Impala's engine sounded as though it were about to break. A sudden anger spread throughout Dean, not able to stand the abuse of his baby any longer. His lips moved, the word _STOP_ emanating loud and clear throughout his mind, and for a few seconds, he could feel it—his foot pressing down on the brake pedal and the car skidding to a stop. He stood, out of breath and staring into the mirror, the world outside still and unmoving.

"That was quite impressive there, Deano. You almost scared me there for a minute. Almost. But as they say, all good things must come to an end," the demon said, and the control Dean momentarily had over his body vanished. Once again, the car was moving without his consent, not as fast this time though. "Why don't you relive a few moments from the days of yesteryear while I find us a sweet, innocent little victim?" the demon said mockingly, and suddenly, the mirror was just that, reflecting nothing but Dean's pain and confusion.

Within seconds, the sound of his father's voice boomed through his ears, and he was consumed with pain. He closed his eyes, and waited for it to pass.

S*P*N*S*P*N*

He wasn't quite sure how long it had lasted. It could've been weeks or months as far as he was concerned, but as voices invaded his ears again, he realized that it was still the same day, just later, daylight having passed hours before.

"Name's Winchester." That was his father's voice, but it wasn't coming from the same place as before. It was coming from the mirror again.

"Where are your friends?"

Dean rose from his place on the floor, feeling more exhausted than he thought was possible. He stood there in the doorway of the bathroom, gaze directed at his window to the outside world. This time, there were trees and shrubs outlining his vision, his father and the head vampire Luther coming to stand in the middle.

"Cleaning your nest," John shot back, a confident smile set across his lips.

Dean's vision changed for a moment as the demon shifted its gaze to the side, Sam standing there next to it. His little brother appeared anxious, but ready, a crossbow gripped tightly in his hands.

"Where's Kate?" Luther asked, and Dean was surprised at the look of concern that was etched into the monster's face.

He watched as his father muttered something, and pulled the drugged female vampire from his truck. She staggered, but John kept a firm grip on her jacket, holding her upright.

"Kate, are you alright?" Luther asked, and the female replied with, "Dead man's blood."

At that moment, an image of a young man, around twenty or so, flashed through Dean's mind. He was small and scrawny, with short brown hair and blue eyes, and clad in a black t-shirt and jeans. He looked scared to death, and Dean soon saw why. He—no the demon, dammit!—had killed the kid, and used his blood to poison the female vamp. Disgust flooded his system, another innocent person condemned all because of him.

"I want the Colt." His father's voice rattled through his head again, whisking him away from the harrowing thought. "Elkins' gun. Trade."

"Is that what this is all about?" the vampire shouted, anger creasing his forehead. His features darkened, his voice taking on a dangerous tone. "You know you can't shoot us all. We'll kill you before that happens."

John laughed at that. "Oh, I don't need it for you. I'm saving it for something else."

The vamp tensed, looking ready to strike at a moment's notice. "Put the gun down," John threatened. "Or she goes first."

"Alright, alright," Luther said through grit teeth, placing the wooden-handled weapon on the ground.

"Back up. Further," John ordered, and Dean recognized the tone. It meant that you better do as he said or face the consequences.

The vampire did as he was told, but Dean didn't miss the smirk that was slowly upturning his lips. That's when he saw that the female, Kate, was working at her bindings. He wanted to call out to his father to warn him, but he didn't. It would be an impossible feat to accomplish at the moment; he was sure he just didn't have the strength to break through as he did before.

"It's a nice move. You _almost_ made it," Luther sneered, catching John off-guard. Before the hunter could react, he was thrown up against his truck by Kate, the gun falling from his hand to the ground. Dean watched in horror as Luther backhanded his father, the blow so powerful, it sent the oldest Winchester's head banging into the window, shattering the glass and knocking John out.

"Now, Sammy," the demon muttered, and they both stepped out from their hiding spot, sending arrows into the backs of the surrounding vamps. One by one, they fell, weakened by the kid's blood that had been on the tips of all the arrows.

Dean watched the scene, fear burning his soul as he watched his little brother make his way closer to the head vampire.

"_Whadda ya think, Deano? Should I just let lil' Sammy get turned? Or should I rescue him like the great big brother that I am?" _the demon's taunts exploded loudly throughout his mind, and he grimaced, grabbing a hold of the wall for support.

"Sammy!" the demon called out as Luther backhanded the middle Winchester, then wrapped his hand around the thin hunter's throat.

The demon pulled a machete from a holster attached to its belt, grasping the gleaming piece of metal in its hands.

"Don't come any closer, or I'll break his neck," Luther threatened, and Dean could see just how hard the vamp was squeezing his little brother's throat. "Put the blade down. Now."

"_Oh, what to do, what to do," _the demon sniggered, its mocking tone only making Dean angrier and more terrified. _"Look at how scared lil' Sammy is." _It sighed an exaggerated sigh, and Dean slammed his fist into the wall, not realizing that a crack had formed in its wake. _"So temperamental, aren't we, Deano? Now you know I'm not done with your family just yet..."_

The vampire tightened its hold on Sam's neck, the middle Winchester's face starting to turn a light shade of blue due to lack of oxygen.

The demon dropped the weapon to the ground, it making a dull _thud_ as it hit the dirt.

"Why can't you just leave us alone, huh?" Luther yelled, his hand still digging into Sam's throat. "We have just as much right to live as you do!" Sam squirmed in his grasp, staring desperately at whom he thought to be his brother.

"I don't think so."

The demon turned, a look of surprise on its face as well as Luther's as John stood there, hatred plastered across his visage as he took aim with the Colt and fired, landing a direct hit right in between Luther's eyes. The vamp stumbled, his hold on Sam releasing as the bullet made its home in his skull.

Not-Dean quickly pulled Sam behind him, murmuring, "You okay, Sammy?" The middle Winchester nodded in response, hands rubbing at his raw and painful looking neck. They both watched in awe as some sort of sigil formed on Luther's forehead at the bullet's entry point. A flash of light enveloped his entire body before he collapsed to his knees, and then finally, to the ground.

"Luther!" Kate screamed, automatically gunning for John before the surviving vamps pulled her back. Dean heard one of them mumble, "We have to get out of here, Kate. It's not worth it." Within seconds, the remaining vampires had piled into Luther's car, the wheels screeching as they pulled off into the night.

"Sam, you okay?" were the first words out of John's mouth in the aftermath. The wounded man immediately made his way over towards his sons, and Dean watched sorrowfully as he was ignored, all of his father's concentration focused on his little brother.

"_Doesn't it make you sick to your stomach? How easily he pushes you to the back of his mind, and forgets about you? And to think, he's been doing this practically all of your life. I suppose you're just used to it now, aren't you, Deano?"_

"We need to get out of here," Not-Dean murmured, gaze cast to the asphalt.

"Alright, let's go. We'll regroup at the motel," John ordered, giving Sam another once over before retreating back to his truck.

"C'mon, Sammy," Not-Dean said, voice low and sounding _oh-so-hurt_.

"_The first thing I'm gonna do, Deano, is torture that little brother of yours. Those little pathetic puppy eyes won't hold a candle to the pain he's gonna be feeling when I'm done with him. And we both know, it's gonna hurt your daddy worse than anything else. And believe me, I'll make sure he has a front row seat too."_

Not-Dean led the way back through the wooded area to the clearing where they had stored the Impala, their boot-clad feet crunching the leaves below them as they walked. "You sure you're okay, Sammy?"

The brunette nodded, but stayed silent, his right hand straying back to his throat to prod the red flesh there.

"_And the best part of it all? Why, you're gonna have a front seat too, Deano! You're gonna get to see every single drop of blood that escapes Sammy's skin. And every single tear that he cries too. And then, once I'm done with your little brother, I'll move onto big bad Johnny boy. And I'll make him hurt so bad, he'll be begging for us to kill him! That's right, Deano, not just me, but us!"_

"Sorry I was so slow, Sammy. If I've-"

Sam shook his head furiously. "Dean, don't." And there was an edge of anger to his tone. "If I wouldn't have gotten that close to him, then he never would've been able to do this," Sam declared, gesturing towards the flesh that was starting to transform into a necklace of bruises. "So, no more blaming yourself, okay?"

"_I can't wait to see the look on your daddy's face when he finally realizes what's going on. That look of shock—oh, it's gonna be priceless! To think, all this time, his soldier, his whipping boy, his punching bag—possessed all along! I wonder if he'll cry when I kill your little brother. You know, he didn't cry when I took away your hearing. He just got angry because—oh! Another thing I stole away from him. Him, not you. He rendered you useless after that. Hell, even now I can tell...he still does."_

"Yeah, sure," the demon replied, nodding.

Silence ping-ponged between them as the demon steered the car down the dark, gravel road. Finally, after a few minutes, not-Dean began to speak.

"Sammy..."

Dean listened on from inside his prison, gaze focused on the blaze of light coming from the headlamps.

"_You're going to love this, Dean. Hold on tight now, it's gonna be a bumpy ride."_

Dean watched in horror as the car started to speed up, and the demon continued to speak. This was going to end badly. He just knew it.

S*P*N*S*P*N

"Did you really mean what you said? About going back to Stanford?"

Dean's voice was barely audible over the rumble of the engine, and Sam didn't miss how sad and desolate his brother sounded. The younger Winchester sighed, and ran a hand through his hair.

"Dean..." he started, but his voice trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Guilt traversed through his veins, exhaustion and frustration getting the better of him.

"It's just-" Dean started, voice sounding as though it were about to break. "I-I don't think I can do this without you. Not anymore."

Sam bit his bottom lip, feeling more and more like an asshole for blurting something out that he'd honestly been considering. He hated hunting—that was a fact. Couldn't stand the instability, or the fact that the threat against their lives multiplied tenfold with each new hunt they'd faced.

Dean's breath hitched, and Sam felt his heart sink at the sound. It sounded so wrong, so horrible, so un-Deanlike. "If you do plan on going," and Dean paused, obviously compartmentalizing his emotions because when he started to speak again, his voice was low but steady. "Just tell me, okay? Don't walk out on me again."

"Dean, I wasn't thinking clearly when I said it, okay? You know how I get around Dad-"

"So that means _I_ have to suffer?" The question caught Sam off-guard. He quirked an eyebrow, unable to keep the look of surprise off his face.

"Well, I'm sorry, Dean, but-"

"But what?" And his brother's eyes lit up, gleaming with anger. "You just figured that you could just run back to California, and I'd be okay with that? That I'd team up with Dad again, and let history repeat itself?"

Sam gaped at his brother, unable to make a retort. He felt angry, yet horrible, fairly positive that there were now tears dancing in his brother's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sammy, but I can't do it," Dean said, shaking his head, two tears leaving wet trails down his face. "I can't. I don't think I'll survive another turn. He'll kill me, and you know it."

The Impala rumbled louder as Dean pressed down on the gas pedal, gravel and dirt spinning underneath the tires at an alarming rate.

"Please, Sammy. Please don't go. Don't leave me." Dean was near sobbing now, his voice shaking just about as hard as his hands were. They were stark white against the black steering wheel, bony and cut up, and trembling.

"Dean, look, this—" Sam paused, taking in a breath and attempting to gather his thoughts. "We both know that this isn't what I want. And as much as-"

Dean didn't give him a chance to finish, the car once again speeding up. "It's always about what _you_ want, isn't it?" Dean near screamed, more tears angrily rolling down his cheeks as the car swerved, his full attention now on Sam instead of the road.

"Dean!" Sam cried out, feeling the car fishtail. "What is wrong with you?" he shouted, eyes wide and bright and scared.

"When we were kids, and you wanted those damned Lucky Charms, and I hadn't eaten for three fucking days—I still gave them to you! When you wanted to eat at McDonalds, and you always wondered why I wasn't hungry? It was because I didn't have enough money to feed the both of us! But _you_ wanted it, so I got it for you! When you were thirteen, and needed money for that stupid soccer team you joined? I worked three jobs to get it for you! Why? Because _you_ wanted it!" Tears were pouring rapidly down Dean's cheeks, the car swerving and weaving, and going far too fast for Sam's liking. But his brother wasn't done yet. "When you were fifteen, and those punks down the street stole your bike? Even though we both knew you weren't even going to be able to keep the damned thing—I went and got it back because you wanted it! And finally, when you got accepted into your fancy ass college and left me and Dad? Once again, another thing you wanted and got! What about what _I_ want? Huh, Sammy? When's it gonna be my turn?"

Sam could feel his heart pounding in his chest, anxiousness clearly written across his face. Dean wasn't the only one shaking, that was for sure. He took a deep breath, frighteningly thankful when the car hit asphalt. It bounced and skidded as it did so, but his brother was undeterred.

"Answer me, dammit!" Dean shouted, the hollows of his face dark and haunting in the spare moonlight streaming through the windows. The cords in his neck bulged every time he raised his voice, only adding to the affect of how truly skinny he was.

"Dean, stop!" Sam yelled, anger creasing his brow, though he was still inwardly bewildered.

"You really want me to stop?" And suddenly, there was a dangerous tone in Dean's voice. The fury was gone, replaced with something quietly disturbing.

"Yes!" Sam replied, inhaling sharply as the engine continued to roar, the speed too great for the classic vehicle.

"Fine," Dean answered coolly. "Because little Sammy always gets what he wants, doesn't he?"

Sam heard the tires screech, but before everything went black, he watched as his brother's eyes transformed from their usual green color into two black pools of evil.

Before he had time to react, his head slammed into the dashboard, sending him spiraling into unconsciousness.

"See how easy that was, Deano? And to think, it only gets better from here..."

**A/N – I am so sorry it took me so long to update. This chapter just didn't want to come out right, no matter how I wrote it. But, it's done, and I hope you all like it. And MANY, MANY THANKS to MysteryMadchen, Stryder2008, Sjoeks, babyreaper, renniespice, dandy44, kissacazador, HPSmallCharm29, anon, and all of you that have faved or are watching this story. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you all sticking around, and I truly am hoping I get done with this soon. Thank you all again, and I hope you enjoyed it. :)**


	18. Came Back Haunted

**The Illusionist II**

**Chapter 18 : Came Back Haunted**

John paced back and forth across the room, glancing at his watch every few minutes. His footfalls echoed off the walls, his boot-clad feet going back and forth, back and forth. Every so often, he'd glance at the weapon that they'd fought so hard to get, his mind running away with thoughts of revenge and finality.

Just as he was about to pick up the phone to find out where the hell his boys were, the front door opened. "What took you both so long?" he immediately blurted out, but stopped himself from continuing further once he saw that there was only of his sons standing in the doorway. He felt his jaw clench in reflex at seeing his oldest, the urge to speak leaving his lips. Though he managed to force out, "Where's Sam?"

Dean closed the door quietly, and murmured, "He went to go get us something to eat." His son's voice was barely audible, sounding so broken and sad it almost hurt to hear. Hell, who was he kidding? It did. It did hurt to hear. This was his own kid for Pete's sake, and he didn't even want to speak to him, let alone look at him. It hurt too damned much, and John Winchester didn't particularly like to feel pain. He preferred to block it out, and pretend it wasn't there, a trait he'd managed to pass down to his oldest. And he felt like shit for it. Every time the kid spoke, or looked at him expectantly with those damn eyes full of weariness and hope. It felt like his chest was caving in, because that shit was his fault, and even after all these years, John Winchester didn't want to accept responsibility.

So he did what was easiest; what he was used to. He snapped.

"Went to go get us something to eat? Why would you let him do that?!" He felt a twinge of guilt twist in his chest, but chose to ignore it, and continued on. "It's not safe to be out there alone! Dammit, Dean!" He saw his oldest flinch as his voice grew louder, watched his back automatically hunch, and the rest of his body go stiff as a board.

"I'm sor-"

"How many times have I told you? You need to look out for your brother! Anything could get him out there alone!" He was in Dean's face before he knew it, hands clenched into fists at his side. It'd be any minute now; he just knew it.

"Dad, I'm sorry. I really am," Dean pleaded, eyes wide and scared and full of fear. "He said he wanted to be alone for a little while, so I let him." He hung his head, no longer able to meet his father's gaze.

"Do you even think about the consequences of your actions? Something could get him out there, Dean!" John shouted, anger surging and coursing through his veins.

"Something could get him in here too," Dean replied, voice low and filled with something that made the hair on the back of John's neck stand on end.

"Excuse me, what did you say?" John said, taking a step closer to his suddenly still son.

"I said," and Dean looked up as he spoke, "That something could get him in here too."

John felt his heart momentarily skip a beat, the action making the organ accelerate rapidly once it started passing blood through his body again. "And what could possibly get him in here?" His tone was incredulous as it often was when he was speaking to his oldest son, but the force behind it was all but gone.

Something wasn't right here.

"Me." Two pools of black replaced the green of Dean's eyes, and a grin so evil slid across his lips that John felt his blood run cold at the sight. Suddenly, it felt like ice was creeping through his blood vessels. His mouth opened slightly, the word "no" on the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn't force it to come out of his throat. "That's right, Johnny boy! I'm ba-ack!" The laugh that tumbled from his son's lips chilled him to the bone, making his eyes go wide with shock and surprise. "I bet you thought you'd never see me again, huh, Johnny boy? Yet, here I am, wearing your kid's meatsuit. _Again_." It chuckled as it stared into his eyes. "How many times is this now? Two, three? Oh, hell, I can't remember!"

"How did you get in here?" John shouted, shrugging of the demon's taunts, all the hatred and rage he felt for the bitch coming to the forefront.

It laughed at him again, black, blank eyes not matching the emotion. "Why, that's an easy one," it answered. "Since I salted those doorways and windows myself, that is."

John shook his head, dread bubbling up into his chest as he watched the demon pull his son's lips up into a tight grin. "You used me, didn't you?" he forced out, the words barely making it out and across his vocal chords. "You're the reason I blacked out!"

The demon clapped loudly, and chuckled again. "Two points for little Johnny Winchester," it mocked, and John never thought in a million years he'd miss seeing the green ocean that made up his son's eyes. He hated this—this darkness that enveloped them now. There was no sign of Dean anywhere in there. None at all. "It was easy, you know. You were so hell bent on revenge, and thinking you were gonna catch ol' Azazel that you didn't even see me coming."

John's attention peaked at those words. "Azazel? Yellow eyes' name is Azazel?"

A look of shock spread across his son's face. "Seriously? You're more interested in that instead of the fact that I'm wearin' your kid? You're more fucked up than I thought..."

"Well, not exactly. But it served its purpose," John replied, and immediately lunged for the Colt, right hand grasping the cold metal as his fingers made purchase on the weapon. He aimed at the demon, brow narrowed, and heart beating a mile a minute.

"So that's the way you're gonna go about this, huh?" the demon asked, tone neutral as it stared John down.

"Yep," the older hunter replied simply, index finger on the trigger.

"That's a shame, Johnny, because I was hoping we could have a little more fun before we had to get down to business, but since you wanna rush things..."

"Shut the fuck up, and get outta my son!" John ordered, teeth grit as a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. He steeled himself, exhaustion, frustration, and anger attempting to overpower him.

The grin disappeared from the demon's face, a darkness shuttering any trace of glee it wore. "You honestly believe that if you snap your fingers, I'm gonna jump to like one of your kids?"

"It's either that, or I put a bullet right through you."

The grin came back, though his son's eyes were still void of any real life. "Hate to break it to ya, Johnny, but you put a bullet through me, you kill your kid. It's only been four months. I'm surprised you forgot that rule. You can't hurt me at all. But the kid, now that's a whole 'nother story." The smile grew wider, forcing lines to form around Dean's mouth due to the skin being pulled so taut.

"That's what you say, but we both know how much your kind likes to lie," the hunter sneered, finger still itching on the trigger, though the demon didn't even move an inch.

"Try me. You think just because I'm hitchin' a ride in your kid means nothing can happen to his physical body? Oh, John, it's about time you studied up on your demonology," it said condescendingly. "If you make this body bleed, it has no effect on me whatsoever. It only damages lil' Deano. But honestly, you never cared about that before, so why start now?"

Hatred flooded through John's veins, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He was running out of options, and fast. There had to be something he could do...

"You know, you're rather smart, John, I'll give you that," the demon started, its voice taking on a more serious tone. "Always thinking two steps ahead, regardless of the fact that we both know, no matter what you do, you're fucked. Hell, I'd say all the Winchesters are pretty fucked right now. Especially lil' Sammy. He didn't even see it coming. Not really anyway."

A fresh wave of fury rolled through John's form, and he looked as though he were ready to shoot, mindless of the fact of what would happen if he did. "What did you do to Sam?" His voice was low and dangerous, but the demon, however, didn't seem to care.

It smiled, flashing Dean's white teeth again in his face, though this time, it was grim, not holding any of the gloating satisfaction that it had earlier. "You know, it's amazingly sad how little you've changed, John. After everything that's happened in these past few months—your oldest managing to pull your youngest one out of retirement, and helping the kid out even though ol' Deano can't even begin to take care of himself; Deano getting electrocuted and having a heart attack—one almost fatal at that. And you act...as though you don't even care, as though none of it ever even happened. Explain that one to me, John. Now, do you see how your kid couldn't even tell you were possessed? And, on that thought, don't you feel like the biggest asshole on earth, because you couldn't even tell _he_ was possessed again? Bravo, John. Bravo. Got some A-1 parenting going on right there."

"You've got some balls judging me, bitch," he returned, voice turning coarse the longer he used it.

"Oh, Johnny, I wouldn't call that judging. It's just a simple observation. This poor kid," it said, pointing at its chest, "has been killing himself for a long time now. And you've done nothing to stop it. Absolutely nothing. He does every single thing you want and more, and what do you do? Push him as far away as possible. I wonder, if I took away Sam's hearing, would that affect you?"

"Don't you even dare," John growled, dark eyes agleam with fear and anger. His chest was heaving, breath passing in and out of his lips at a hurried pace.

"Or what? What will you do? Hmmm?" it egged him on, mysterious grin set upon its lips. "You gonna shoot me, Johnny? Sacrifice one son for the other? Somehow, I don't doubt that you would." The demon shook its head, circling the man. "You're a true piece of work, Winchester."

"Where's my son?" John demanded, eyes narrowed as he sized up the demon.

"He's right here," the demon replied, pointing to itself, laughing as John grew angrier. "_Oh_, you mean the other one. He's in a safe place. How's that?"

John shook his head. "Not good enough."

"You know, you're not really in a position to call the shots here, Johnny. You do _realize_ that, right?" It stared at him, incredulous expression set upon its features—his son's features.

"Where's Sam?" John repeated, jaw clamped so tight his teeth were starting to hurt.

"Always so worried about that kid, aren't you?" the demon continued, sliding off Dean's jacket, leaving it standing there in a pair of rugged, holy jeans, and a flannel over a henley to boot. John felt his heart sink, the way the clothes just hung on his kid's body turning something in his stomach. He grimaced, hating how many bones he could count as the demon rolled up Dean's sleeves. "Well, John, I think I've had enough of this. It's showtime!" it shouted, and with a flick of the wrist, John was thrown against the far wall, his head smashing into the wood at impact. The gun slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor with a _thump_. "All the world's a stage, Johnny boy, and now it's your turn to watch as the show plays out right in front of your eyes." It smiled again, though Dean's lips held an eerie calm on them. It reminded John of the way it felt right before a bad storm or hurricane was coming; peaceful yet foreboding.

Something bad was about to happen. Something terrible.

He wondered, if he was going to survive the night.

As the demon slammed his head against the wall once more and darkness started to overtake his vision, he saw his chances becoming slim to none.

He only knew one thing; this would be the last time he'd see that demon after tonight. Which one would be on the winning team, though, was anyone's guess.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Sam felt himself coming back to consciousness, the feeling of being awake forcing him to drift away from the haze he'd been shrouding himself in. The drum that pounded against his skull was beating away swiftly, pain coming in waves the more aware he became.

"Sammy!"

The sound of his name caught him off guard, and he blinked his eyes open, finding a gray ceiling above him.

"Sam!" his name was called again, and he was hit with such an intense wave of deja vu it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Sam, please! Wake up!"

At that, the youngest Winchester sat bolt upright, eyes wide and taking in the room before him.

_Shit! No, no, this can't be happening..._

He turned his head in his father's direction, eyes going wide as he saw the man tied up in the chair, just like in the vision he'd had numerous times before. There was blood staining his forehead, and running down his face too.

"Sam, look, I know we're not on the best of terms right now—but please, son—"

If his father was tied up in the chair, then that could mean only one thing. Goosebumps traversed the expanse of his skin as he turned his head, his brother coming into view. Suddenly, he recalled the car ride, and Dean's odd behavior. And he couldn't forget his eyes. The way they turned into two black voids instead of the clear pools of green they usually were.

_This can't be happening! How the hell can this be happening?!_

"Oh, don't worry about him, Sammy. He'll be just fine." And there were those eyes—those eyes devoid of everything Dean—staring at him, staring _through_ him. "It's you, you should be worried about." Dean's lips pulled upward, revealing his perfectly white teeth.

Sam shook his head, because his brother didn't smile like that—didn't grin like a fucking maniac—and he sure as hell wouldn't take pleasure in hurting anyone, unless they hurt his family first. But this person standing before him wasn't Dean. No, this person couldn't be his brother. It was that damned demon he'd heard so much and so little about at the same time. This was the thing that had helped destroy his brother's life.

"You know, I gotta say, Sam, after hearing about all this college mojo, I thought for sure you'd be a helluva a lot smarter than what you are. I almost understand why your daddy didn't see this coming—but you? I know I'm a pretty good actor an' all, but I thought for sure that you'd see right through it." The demon chuckled. "It's amazing how neither of you really know this kid. I'm almost starting to feel sorry for him. _Almost._"

"What do you want?" Sam asked, fingers clenching the gray sheets on the bed (naturally, they matched the color of the ceiling, but it was a very bad time to think about that). His whole body felt tense, as though he were a wind-up toy that had its key turned one too many times. His head was pounding away, his brain thumping against his skull like it was a damned bongo drum.

"What do I want?" the demon asked innocently, stepping away from the doorway and moving closer to the bed. "What I want-" and at that moment, Sam felt something warm run down his chin. He lifted an unsteady hand to his lips, and upon glancing down at it, saw red. "What I want is for your daddy to suffer and be as miserable as he possibly can."

Sam's headache began to steadily grow worse, and it felt like his head was about to explode. He immediately pressed his hands to his temples, trying desperately not to let out a cry of pain, but it came out anyway in the form of a grunt.

"Leave him alone!" John shouted, his voice thundering in the quiet room.

The demon shook its head, laughing all the while. "Do you see now, Sam? Don't you want him to suffer too? After all he did to you and your brother—don't you want to see him in pain? In fact, if you're not feeling up to par, I can just wreck _this_ body for a little while. Because while seeing his oldest son in pain might not hurt him, it'll hurt you, and that's the last thing he wants. He doesn't want a hair on poor lil' Sammy's head getting touched." The demon paused, wiping the grin off it's face and sending John a glare. "But you can't always get what you want, can you, Johnny?" it asked, bringing its hand up and squeezing an object that couldn't be seen.

Sam screamed as pain electrified his brain, the trickle of blood that had been dripping from his nose a steady stream now.

"Stop! Stop it, you bitch!" John yelled, yanking at his binds.

The demon laughed again. "What's wrong, Johnny? Am I hurting the wrong son?" The look of innocence it feigned was sickening, so un-Dean like, it made Sam feel even more nauseated than he already was. The pain was almost blinding him, so excruciating he was sure his head was just going to pop open like a rotten watermelon. The demon rushed over to the bed, kneeling down in front of the youngest Winchester. "Aw, does it hurt, Sammy?" it taunted, switching its eyes back to Dean's original color, though any sign of his brother was long gone from them. "Do you know what I'm doing to you?"

Sam shook his head, palms still pressed against his temples. He gritted his teeth against the pain, though it did nothing to stall the throbbing against his skull. Involuntary tears escaped his eyes, running down his cheeks and falling onto his jeans.

"I'm slowly but surely killing you! That's what!" the demon said mockingly, a sneer now on its lips. "Bit by bit, I'm crushing each little tiny brain cell. Pretty soon, that head's gonna be full of mush."

"Dean!" their father's voice thundered from the chair, sending both Sam and the demon's heads in his direction.

The demon laughed at him, standing up straight and walking over to him. "There is no _Dean_ anymore, Winchester. He's all packed away up here," the demon said, pointing a slim index finger to its head. "He can look out every now and then, but as far as control goes, he's all but lost. So the next time you address me," and it backhanded him across the jaw as it spoke through clenched teeth, "Make sure it's by my real name."

Blood trickled from John's now split lip. "What is it again? Oh, yeah, it's _bitch_, isn't it?" he offered up, surefire smile lifting up the corners of his mouth.

The demon scowled, eyes growing dark once again as it landed a punch directly on his cheek. "I'm getting' a little sick of you calling me that, Winchester. So consider this one on you." It stood up and turned around, a hand reaching for the knife that was attached to Dean's belt loop. Before it could take another step though, John kicked it right in the left calf. The demon went down with a pained grunt, legs buckling beneath it. Its head caught the edge of the coffee table right before it landed on the floor with a _thud. _

"Sam, Sam you okay?" John called out immediately.

Sam took a deep breath, the pain in his head still present, but nowhere near as bad as it was before. "Yeah," he answered weakly before repeating himself, this time his voice a little bit stronger.

"Son, I need you to untie me. We have to work fast—before it wakes up," he added, a look of pure desperation on his face.

Sam nodded, one hand still massaging his temple as he slid off the bed. He stumbled a bit, boots catching on the raggedy carpet, but managed to stay on his feet. He quickly made his way over to his father, blood-smeared hands undoing the binds.

"Sam, I need you to listen to me, and do everything I ask, okay? Can you do that?" John stared at him, steadying his injured son with a firm hand on his shoulder.

Though his vision was still a bit tricky, the youngest Winchester nodded, swallowing back down the nauseating feeling that was clambering up his chest and into the back of his throat.

Immediately, his father sprung into action. "I need you to get my journal," he said as he knelt down and retrieved Dean's unconscious body from the floor. Sam stood there for a moment, watching, unable to move. All he could do was stare at his brother, and how impossibly frail he seemed as John pulled him up and sat him in the chair the older man had just been tied to. It just seemed so easy. Far too easy...

"Sam!" The sound of his father's voice broke through the silence of his thoughts, and he came to, eyes focused on his father. "My journal. _Now_."

Sam nodded. "Right," he mumbled, and searched for the prized possession, movements still slow and sluggish, no matter how hard he told himself to move faster. His brother's life was at stake, that alone should have got him moving, but the pain in his head was stalling him, making the task he was assigned all the more harder.

It took a few moments, but he finally found the damned thing, buried deep down in his brother's duffel. "What do you need me to do?" he asked, and his father must have caught the way he swayed when he spoke because the older man's eyes were full of nothing but worry.

"There's a banishing ritual, near the end. I need you to find it for me," John answered as he pulled the seated demon to the hardwood part of the floor, and began to pour salt around it.

Sam flipped through the pages, glancing up every now and then, watching as his father used chalk to make various symbols and markings on the floor around the salt circle.

"I think I found it," Sam stated, brow narrowing as he started to skim through the Latin. At first glance, he didn't recognize any of the words, his memory backfiring on him. He shook his head, and forced himself to concentrate, even though the more he focused, the more his head hurt. It didn't help that his father's handwriting wasn't exactly the greatest, some of the words almost ineligible.

"It's not going to work," Dean's voice was low and venomous as it spoke, instantly pulling Sam's attention from the foreign language.

"That's what you think," John muttered as he stood, never turning his back to the demon as he retrieved a bottle of holy water from his duffel.

The demon snickered through grit teeth as it struggled against its bindings. "Oh, I don't think, I _know_," it replied, slim fingers working at the knots that were tied tightly around its wrists.

"Let me see the journal, son," John ordered, reaching a hand out towards Sam whose full attention was on the demon. He stared straight ahead as though he were in a trance, unable to break eye contact with the evil being pretending to be his brother. "Sam?" John tried again.

"He's going to kill your brother, Sam," the demon stated. "You do know that, right?" It's gaze burned a hole into the youngest Winchester, and he gaped at its words, eyes widening at the demon's remark.

"Sam, don't listen to it," John hissed, fingers clasping at the journal's pages.

"Hell, Deano's just about dead inside anyway, so I guess it really doesn't matter. After all the things your daddy's done to him, I'm actually surprised he's still around."

"Shut up!" John shouted, his anger getting the best of him as he splashed holy water on the demon.

It laughed as smoke shrouded it momentarily, then disappeared into the air. John's brow narrowed at the demon's easy dismissal of the water, knowing full and well that the water should have hurt it, but it did nothing.

"You're hilarious, Johnny. Holy water ain't gonna do a damned thing to me. Silly old man."

Sam watched as it tore its gaze away from his father, and bore into him once more. "Sam, do you know why your daddy hates Dean so much?"

Sam shook his head, jaw clenched at the sight of his brother tied up and bleeding from the wound on his head. The youngest Winchester could see the blood that had been slowly dripping down the back of the chair and forming a small puddle on the floor below.

"It's because he-"

"That's enough!" John shouted, tearing the journal from Sam's hands, deep voice beginning to read the ritual. _"__Tibi de medio inferni, ut revertetur ad inferos.__His verbis loquor, obtestorque te summoveant regnique..."_

Sam watched in horror as suddenly Dean's eyes unclouded and became green again. Fear flooded his brother's face, his features contorted into one of pain. "Sammy, make him stop! Please! It's me, Sammy! Don't let him do it! She wasn't lying!" Dean started to cough, specks of blood passing through his lips and littering his shirt and mouth. "He's going to kill me, Sammy! The ritual – it'll take us both." Dean grimaced as the pain became stronger, tears stinging his eyes as he forced out another sentence. "The wording – the wording's wrong..."

Sam's heart pounded in chest, and the feeling of being sick overwhelmed him. Was it true? Was his father really going to banish the demon and his brother straight to hell?

He couldn't take that chance.

"Dad, stop!" Sam shouted, pain shooting through his skull as he reached for the book his father was refusing to stop reciting from. "Dad, please!" the youngest Winchester pleaded, voice breaking when it felt like his brain was going to explode.

But John didn't stop. He continued reading from the worn and yellowed pages, voice never faltering a beat.

"Sammy, please!" Dean screamed, the pain apparently becoming so extreme that the middle Winchester couldn't hold back the sob that escaped his lips. It broke Sam's heart to hear such an agonizing sound come from his brother. More blood bubbled from his lips, and then his eyes, and before Sam knew what was happening, Dean's mouth opened, a flood of black and white smoke pouring out of it and vanishing through the floor.

All at once, silence filled the room.

"No, Dean, no," Sam muttered as he watched Dean's head slump forward. Fighting the dizziness that was attempting to conquer his sight, he rushed over to the chair, crouched down, and reached for a pulse. "No, no, this can't be right," he murmured, shaking his head as he moved his index and middle fingers around his brother's neck to no avail. "No!"

"Sam?"

Sam's head shot up, the demon's laughter penetrating his ears. He looked around the room and saw that the demon was still in the chair, and that his father's journal was in his hands.

_Shit!_

He'd just had another vision.

That's all it was. It wasn't real.

"Sam? What's going on? You're bleeding!" Sam finally registered his father's voice, head jerking in the older man's direction. The action temporarily doubled his vision, but he quickly recovered, aware enough that he could feel a warm substance running down his lips.

The demon laughed harder, obviously thrilled by the sight of Sam's blood. "That's just wonderful," it muttered, gaze drifting between the two Winchesters.

"Sam, hey," John said, cupping Sam's face in his hands. "Sam, you okay?"

"Oh, he's fine, Johnny boy. A little blood never hurt anyone," it said, and sniggered some more.

"I'm okay," Sam muttered, glancing at the demon before looking into his father's worried eyes. "I'm fine," he reassured, wiping the still trickling crimson substance off his skin.

"You won't be for long."

Sam and John both turned their heads towards the demon. Sam's features narrowed in fear, his father's twisted into hate.

"Those visions are gonna catch up to you one of these days," the demon stated, showcasing Dean's white teeth again. "The headaches are only going to grow worse. And then, before you know it – BOOM!" It chuckled again, unprepared for the punch John threw at its jaw. The gesture only made the evil being laugh even louder once it recovered, blood now smeared across Dean's teeth. "Aw, you had no idea your kid's been having visions, have you, Johnny. His most favorite ones are when he sees what you did to his brother. The beatings you gave lil' Deano, the after effects – yeah, he's seen 'em all."

"I don't have time for this shit," John muttered darkly, and grabbed the journal from Sam's hands. Almost instantly, he began to read off the words Sam had heard him recite before, and immediately, the youngest Winchester reacted. Sam tore the leatherbound book from his father's hands, a sliver of fear filling him at the look of utter hatred etched upon his father's face. "Sam..."

"There's a mistake," the brunette replied, eyes glancing down at the pages.

_Focus dammit, focus! _

He had almost scanned the first paragraph when he felt his father's rough hand grab his wrist.

"I copied that ritual word for word. There aren't any mistakes in it," John stated, voice far too dangerous for Sam's liking. The man made a move for the book again, but Sam jumped back, eyes darting back to the pages.

"But there is!" Sam responded, forcing his brain to recall the years worth of memorizing the dead language so that he could find the mis-worded phrase.

"Sam, now is not the time!"

"You're going to kill Dean if you don't listen to me, so just shut up and give me a second!" the youngest Winchester blurted out, fingers skimming across the words.

"That's a banishing ritual for demons, Sam. I'm not going to hurt your bro-"

"Here! Right here!" Sam shouted, pointing out the mistake to his father. "Right here it says that you'll banish the host's soul as well as the demon. See?"

"You two put on such a wonderful show for me," the demon cut in, grinning from ear to ear. "I feel so special," and in an instant, the smile was gone, replaced with a frown so deep Sam wondered if the lines from it wouldn't be permenant on his brother's face.

John glanced up at Sam with acknowledgement and surprise in his eyes. Sam knew there would be questions later, but he'd live til then. As long as Dean was safe, it would all be alright.

His father began the ritual once more, and this time Sam knew it would be done right.

After a few moments, the demon started to struggle, eyes narrowing as it began to get pulled towards its origin point. It hissed and snapped as John continued on, voice only growing louder as the demon began to scream.

It's jaw dropped open, and suddenly, black smoke poured from its lips, flooding out rapidly into the air before spiraling down through the floor.

The familiar silence Sam had heard moments before filled the room. Without even caring about the splitting ache that felt like it was crushing his skull, Sam rushed over to his unconscious brother, hurriedly untying the ropes that encircled his wrists. Dean's head was slumped forward, just as it was in his vision, though this time when Sam checked for a pulse, it was there, beating steadily beneath his fingertips.

"Dean?" his voice interrupted the quietness of the room. His hand slid to the back of his brother's neck, the skin sticky and clammy. "Dean?" he tried again.

"Sam," his father's voice warned from behind, sounding unsure and wary.

After a few seconds, Dean's eyes slowly opened, looking dazed but the same wonderful color green they always had been. "Dean," Sam whispered his name and threw his arms around him, hugging him tightly. He heard his brother wheeze, and loosened his grip. "Are you okay?" he asked, pulling back and looking Dean over.

His brother stared at him for a moment, eyes glistening and searching.

"Dean?" Sam asked again, fear making his heart pound in his chest. Something was wrong.

Sam watched something cross over his brother's face, a mixture of relief and sadness as a grim smile formed on his lips.

"I'm fine, Sammy," Dean whispered, but the youngest Winchester could see right through that lie. Dean wasn't fine.

"Tell me what's wrong," Sam ordered, and once he saw his brother's eyes break contact with his and focus on his lips instead, he understood.

Dean couldn't hear him.

**A/N : I don't think I can apologize enough for taking so long to update. I won't give any excuses, I'll just say I'm sorry, and hope that you all enjoyed the chapter. MASSIVE THANKS to Carla888, babyreaper, dels76, Stryder2008, jazzy2may2, renniespice, dandy44, kissacazador, Surely Sherlocked, TwightllightFairy(thanks for pointing that mistake out to me ;)), twaddletoe, Shara Raizel, and the three guests that reviewed as well as all of you who have stuck with this story for the past two years and have put it on one of your lists, THANK YOU ALL! I really truly appreciate every single review and alert I receive. I hope this chapter sufficed, and I pray it won't take me three months to get the next one out!**


	19. The Absentee

**The Illusionist II**

**Chapter 19 : The Absentee**

John stood between the two beds, gaze drifting back and forth between his two sleeping sons. He was bone weary and felt as though he hadn't slept in days, his brown, sunken eyes a testament to that fact. He felt like absolute shit. He sighed silently and scrubbed a hand over his face. What had he done? His only goal in life after Mary had died was to catch and kill the thing that had murdered her, and maybe rid the world of a few other horrors along the way. But somehow, he'd managed to drag his sons into this – this mess.

His gaze drifted to Dean, chest seizing at the sight of his oldest son. Exhaustion was more than apparent on the young hunter, his slight body sprawled flat out on the bed, still wearing the clothes he'd been wearing since the day before. His face, gaunt even in unconsciousness, still wore the expression of pain he had while awake. His skin was pale, and the circles underneath his eyes dark and heavy. But John knew his greatest pain was invisible. Thanks to him, his oldest son was deaf again, having just got back his hearing a month or so before.

John clenched his jaw as memories and thoughts of days past flew across his eyes. A surge of pain flared up in his gut, and all he could think about was how horribly he had treated that boy. He'd put more bruises on that kid than he could ever count, and not once did Dean ever even try to defend himself. He just stood there and took it.

And it wasn't as though John didn't know how badly Dean tried to please him. The kid would go without food or sleep, mind too distracted by clues or cases to give either a second thought. And would he say anything to him? No, of course not. He'd let the kid continue to punish himself just as much as he punished him, and never even put out an inkling that he was worried about him. Not one fucking time.

He'd made him run for miles on end, beaten endless patterns of bruises onto his flesh, and berated him so badly he made his own stomach turn. Sure, his kid might not have been able to have heard his voice, but undoubtedly the expression on his face showcased exactly how he felt. Only, he was pretty positive, Dean would never know that the disgust he felt was for himself, not for the younger hunter.

Some fucking father he was.

He could feel a lump form in his throat as Dean shifted in his sleep, the kid curling up into a fetal position with his knees pressing up tightly against his chest.

His kid wanted to be as small as possible. Probably felt that way too.

John swallowed down the saliva that was resting just above the lump, thinking the action would force it down, but it didn't. It only made it worse, made it harder to handle.

It wasn't long before he felt tears well in his eyes, his vision blurring as he tried to trap them there, but a few escaped, crashing to the floor below.

He immediately moved a hand up, and swiped them away, but more fell in their place.

An image of his son at four years old flashed before his eyes. The kid was grinning from ear to ear, blond hair bouncing up and down as he ran straight towards John with his arms wide open.

"Daddy!" and just the memory of that little voice echoing through his head sent tremors down his body, and caused more tears to flood from his eyes.

He'd destroyed that little boy, forced him to become a man far before his time.

He took away his future, took away those dreams of becoming a fireman, took away any hope of his kid ever being just that – a kid.

John clasped a hand over his mouth, feeling the beginnings of a sob attempting to pry his lips open and escape out into the air, but he bit it back and choked it down.

He hurriedly wiped his eyes again, and ran his hands through his thick, dark hair, fingers clenching the tips.

A shaky sigh escaped his lips as his gaze was pulled towards Sam, and more guilt flooded through him. He knew Sam wasn't meant for a life such as the one they lived. No, his youngest son was destined to be in a more intellectual world, a normal world. Sam had hated hunting the moment he'd found out about it – hated the killing, the moving from place to place and never actually getting to settle down – even John had had that comfort when he was a child, and yet he'd stripped that from both his boys.

Dean always took it, accepted it; but Sam always made it known how horrible he thought it was.

Sam was so much like him it hurt. But it hurt even worse to know that his son hated him, because even though John had nothing to do with the demon that had let itself into their home that one fall night many years before, he had everything to do with what happened afterward. Instead of accepting the fact that his wife was gone and never coming back, he trudged forward into a world of monsters and demons and rituals no one in their right mind should be forced to learn. But he had, and he he'd forced that life on his kids, though they were anything but nowadays.

They were men now, and yet he still ordered them around as thought they were mere pawns on a chessboard. He used them like the king did, putting them on the front lines of battle and both of them had the scars to prove it.

He couldn't let this go on anymore.

This had been his battle, his war from the start, so therefore, it would be his to finish as well.

"I love you both," he whispered, and his mind was made up.

He took one last look at them before he turned around and opened the door, shutting it quietly behind him.

He was going to finish this once and for all.

On his own.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Dean wasn't quite sure what had actually roused him from his dreamless sleep. It was either the fact that he was freezing, or the overwhelming sense of emptiness that he felt as soon as he regained consciousness. He opened his eyes slowly, unsure of what he'd see when he did.

Sam was laying on the bed next to him, brow drawn and expression serious even in sleep. Guilt struck Dean as soon as he saw him, and he couldn't push the feeling away even if he'd wanted to. It came in bits and pieces, but the one thing he could clearly remember was when the demon had been hurting his brother – that part he hadn't forgotten. Almost everything else was shoddy, and he presumed that more than likely in the days to come, his subconscious would remind him of all the other things the demon had forced him to do or see.

His gaze crept over the room, traveling from the empty table to their two duffel bags that sat on the floor, and that's when he realized their father was missing. He sat up, too suddenly for his own good, the headache that he'd had before he fell asleep hitting him in full force and causing a wave of dizziness to crash over his equilibrium and sending him straight back down to the mattress. He raised both hands to his temples and pressed in, willing the pain to go away though it stayed put. Feeling as though he were on the verge of vomiting, he sat up as slowly as he could, but he still couldn't shake the nauseous feeling. Clamping his hand over his mouth, he struggled to make it into the bathroom before he threw up. Once his stomach had been emptied (nothing but bile and water, he saw), he flushed the toilet and sat up, already figuring he had woken Sam up. It wasn't long before his younger brother appeared in the doorway, looking worried and just as worn as he felt.

"You okay?" Sam asked, and Dean nodded. He watched Sam shake his head at himself. "Sorry," his younger brother said, and formed a fist with his thumb resting atop his fingers and made a few clockwise motions in front of his chest.

Dean just shook his head. "It's alright, Sammy," he muttered, forcing himself to stand. He went over to the sink, and splashed some water into his mouth and over his face. He dried his face off with one of the motel's cheap towels, the overpowering scent of bleach enveloping his nose. He took a deep breath and turned to face his brother. "He's gone."

Sam nodded in response, and Dean couldn't tell if he was sad, angry, or relieved.

"You okay?" Dean asked with his hands, pointing at Sam and then finger-spelling the 'O' and 'K'.

His younger brother nodded, grimacing as he did so.

"Headache?" Dean inquired silently, lifting both hands up in front of his forehead and extending his index fingers towards each other.

"Yeah," Sam admitted, running a hand through his hair.

Dean nodded and exited the room. He made his way over his duffel, rummaging through it for a moment until he removed a bottle of ibuprofen. He popped the lid open, and shook two pills into his hand. He grabbed a bottle of water from the mini fridge and handed the items over to Sam.

His younger brother stared at him, blue eyes questioning and searching as he accepted the water and pills.

"What?" Dean asked, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Why are you looking at me like that?" signing his words instead of speaking them. His insecurity level was running high, so he decided he wasn't going to speak for awhile. Not until Sam needed him to.

The youngest Winchester let a sad smile grace his lips before shaking his head and gulping down the ibuprofen and water. His then moved his right hand to his chin with his fingertips touching his lips, and extended it forward in an arch towards Dean. "Thanks," he said. His still looked pale and worse for wear, so Dean grabbed some change from his jacket pocket and signed, "Be right back."

Before Sam could protest, he was already out the door and treading along the rows of rooms, the cold making his teeth chatter. Finally, he found the vending machine and stuck the change in, entering the code for the last Snickers bar that was sitting in spot B6. He shivered, flurries scattering around him as the candy bar dropped down. He quickly reached in and snatched it up, crossing his arms against his chest as he made his way back to their room. Sam was sitting on his bed, back to him with his head in his hands. Dean walked around the bed and handed him the candy bar. Sam looked up, hands shaking as he took it. "Thanks," he said again, this time not signing the word, but Dean already knew what he'd said so he just nodded in response. Dean watched him eat, and when he was satisfied that Sam would be alright, he grabbed some clothes out of his duffel.

He cleared his throat, and forced himself to speak. " 'M gonna go get cleaned up. When I'm done, I'll go get some real food. Sound good?"

Sam nodded. "Sure." He looked on the verge of being upset, and Dean figured it had something to do with the fact that Sam knew that no matter what type of fight he put up, they were still going to follow their father. So Dean kept quiet and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He tried his best to ignore just how sore his body was as he peeled off the layers he was wearing. Most of the wounds he had sustained at the hands of the Benders were healing, but they still hurt. Though he'd never admit it. He'd just do what he always did, keep marching on regardless of the fact that he was hungry, tired, or cold.

_...Be a good soldier..._

He turned on the water in the shower, letting it warm up before he got in. The mirror was beckoning him, but he avoided his reflection. From what he had caught just a few minutes before, he looked like shit, and didn't care to give himself a second glance. After a minute or two, he undid his belt and slid his jeans and boxers off and gingerly climbed into the shower. The stab wound on his leg was still bothering him. He grimaced as the hot spray hit him, making all the injuries he'd sustained in the past few days burn as they were thoroughly cleaned. Before he even bothered with the shampoo, he let the water run on the back of his head. John had cleaned it for him last night, Sam having been far too out of it. The oldest Winchester had sewn his flesh back together, albeit roughly, but it had managed to bleed a bit while he had slept. Once the dried blood was out of his hair, he began to wash it as carefully as he could.

When he was content that his hair was clean, he reached for the bottle of AXE that was sitting on the edge of the shower, but he lost his grip and it clattered to the shower floor. He let out a curse, and bent down to retrieve it, though when he stood back up, all he saw was black. Dizziness crashed over him, and forced him to hold onto the shower wall for support. His breath started to quicken as the world spun silently around him, so he pressed his head against the wall and closed his eyes, trying desperately not to panic. He could feel his heart, thumping away in his chest, pumping his blood through his veins like there would be no tomorrow. It was almost like his worst nightmare, not being able to see or hear.

_...Go away, go away, go away..._

It was then that he could feel the muscles in his stomach tighten and twitch, and the urge to throw up hit him again. He wrapped his arm around his mid-section as he dropped to his knees, unable to stop himself from dry-heaving. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything. He was pretty positive that nothing passed through his lips the entire time he was possessed, and before that he was uncertain. Had it really been an entire week?

Pain continued to twist his stomach into knots as the shower water rained down upon him. He blanched when he felt two hands grip a hold of him, one on his shoulder, the other on his back. The motion caused him to lurch forward, but he didn't fall. Instead, one hand disappeared, and an arm slid across his chest, holding him securely in place. Seconds later, he felt the water stop. Then, a towel was being wrapped around him, the rough motel cotton brushing against his marked skin. Slowly but surely, he felt himself being guided upwards. He was still dizzy, but he forced open his eyes and saw his little brother standing there amongst the blue and purple spots that were still marring his vision. "I can do it," he forced out, but Sam wasn't going anywhere. Dean relented, knowing full and well he wouldn't be able to make it back into the bedroom without his little brother's assistance. Still, he couldn't help but be encompassed by guilt. He was supposed to be taking care of Sammy, that was his job, not the other way around.

He put on a brave face, gritting his teeth at the continued pain that was making his stomach cramp. His arms were wrapped around himself gripping the towel, while Sam's hands were ever present on his shoulder and back. Eventually, they made it over to Dean's bed and he sat down. He was too ashamed to even throw a glance up at Sam's way. He just hunched over on himself, pulling the rough cloth tighter around his thin frame. An involuntary shiver wracked his body, and he clenched his jaw even tighter, hating how weak he looked now.

It was as though, all at once, everything that was wrong with his long exhausted body finally caught up with him. His head ached; his knuckles, though scabbed over, burned; and those were just some of the physical wounds. His mental state was a whole other story.

Suddenly, he felt Sam's hand on his shoulder again, and he jerked away from the contact, the motion jarring his already painful wounds. It didn't help that he'd managed to mutter, "Don't," so brokenly that his younger brother was nearly in tears. He couldn't help it though. He didn't deserve for Sam to be so kind to him, not after what he'd done to him. He'd nearly killed him, and yet there he was, still trying to be a good little brother and do what he thought was right. But Dean knew better. He didn't deserve the comfort of a soothing hand or his brother's embrace which was inevitably coming. He felt the bed dip next to him, and he tightened in on himself even more, trying to make himself as small as possible. But not matter how hard he tried, he could shrink no further away from Sam, and soon, he was being pulled forward, one hand on the back of his head, the other gently pressed against his back. He tried pulling away once again, but his brother's embrace was firm. He shook his head, and once he felt Sam's breath against his ear, shushing him, he knew he must've been muttering something. What, he had no clue. He bit his bottom lip to stifle whatever words and sounds were escaping his lips, and stared forward, waiting for it to be over with.

Finally, after a few minutes, Sam pulled away from him, though his hands were still on Dean, positioned gently on his shoulders. That's when Dean saw the tears that were slowly traversing the expanse of his brother's cheeks. "I can't begin to understand what you're going through," Sam said, removing his hands to sign with them. But before he could finish, Dean just shook his head and looked away, embarrassment and anger forcing his brow to narrow. Within seconds, Sam's hand was on his cheek, touch as light as feather as he guided Dean to look at him again. "Please just listen to me," Sam said, laying his right hand flat against his chest and moving it counter-clockwise. He then formed his hand into a 'C' shape and cupped his right ear. "Please?" he asked again, blue eyes glimmering with more tears, and the guilt that was consuming Dean forced him to keep his brother's gaze.

"I know what you want to do, and I'm not going to argue with you about it. I'm not," Sam reinforced, pointing to himself, then forming a fist with his hand, he stuck his thumb up and placed it to the tip of his chin and moved it forward in an arch. "But before we go anywhere," he said, placing his hand out in front of him in a fist shape again with his thumb sticking up while he moved it in a circle, then tucking his thumb away, extended his index finger and shook it. "You have got to eat something. Even if it's just a bowl of soup, because this can't keep happening, Dean." And Dean could tell by the way his brother's top lip was trembling that he was having trouble holding it together. He could see that Sam was on the verge of crying again. "Or one of these days, you might not wake up, to save Dad or anyone else for that matter. And I couldn't live with myself if I allowed that to happen. So will you please do that? For me?" he asked, pointing to himself.

Dean stared at him, green eyes appearing larger in his gaunt face. He nodded after a moment, though the guilt that had poured over him earlier was still keeping him company.

A sad smile pulled at the corners of Sam's lips, and a single tear cascaded down his cheek. "I'll go get something. Stay put, okay?"

Dean reached out to him, bony wrist peaking from the confines of his towel and lightly gracing Sam's arm before the younger man could make it too far from the bed. His brother stopped immediately, blue eyes locking onto his. Dean withdrew his arm and instead made the sign for clothes, forming a 'five' shape with his hand and running it down his chest twice. The sign called for two, but his other hand was still busy holding up the towel. He was pretty sure Sam understood his shorthand. His brother looked apologetic and nodded, going into the bathroom and coming back out with the clothes Dean had taken in there with him. Sam handed them over and Dean took them gratefully. He was freezing.

"You need help?" Sam asked, holding his left hand out in front of him palm facing upwards as he placed his right hand that was formed into a shape of a fist with his thumb pointing upwards and moved it away from himself.

Dean shook his head, pointed to himself, and signed back the letters 'O' and 'K'. He could feel Sam staring at him, and rolled his eyes. "Go," he signed, bringing his right hand up to the side of his face with his fingers extended, then moving it away from him and bringing all of his fingers together.

He watched his brother move out of the corner of his vision, still not making eye contact even as Sam slipped on his jacket and grabbed the Impala's keys. Finally, Sam stepped in front of him. "I'll be back soon," he signed, and Dean nodded. Sam disappeared from his sight, and after a few seconds, glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was actually gone. Once his suspicions were confirmed, he released the breath he'd been holding, and started to slip on his clothes. He pulled on his boxers first (they too were now loose), followed by his jeans. Even though they were only a size 32, they still hung dangerously low on his hips, where the bones were now definitely jutting out. He pulled on the black henley, the shirt easily three sizes too big on his slender frame. He completed the outfit with the thick black socks his brother had given him as a late Christmas present. They were warm and comfortable, and for that he was thankful because his feet were freezing.

Still feeling chilly, he carefully stood up. This time, however, his vision stayed intact. He lightly padded over to his duffel and unzipped the bag. He was about to rummage through it for another t-shirt when he saw his father's journal sitting atop everything. He paused, knowing full and well that John had held onto it since his return, and the last time he had seen it, it had been on the table before he'd passed out. Curiosity getting the better of him, he removed it from its perch, and stood back up, absentmindedly grabbing Sam's hoodie that had been strewn across the back of one of the motel chairs. He pulled his arms through it, zipped it up, and sat back down on his designated bed. He began to flip through the pages of the journal, not finding anything unusual until he got to the last page. He almost dismissed the letter, except for the fact that his name was scrawled atop of the page in his father's frantic-looking penmanship.

His brow narrowed at the discovery. Swallowing thickly, he allowed himself to read it.

_**Dean -**_

_**Son, there isn't enough room on this page for me to tell you how sorry I am for everything I've ever done to you. A true father would've never even thought of doing the things I have to you to their son. I just wanted to let you know, that in no way have you ever let me down. You've done more for me than anyone else in my life, and a million thank yous still wouldn't be enough to express the gratitude I have for you. You changed my life the moment you came into it, and I will never forget seeing you for the first time in your mother's arms. Dean, you are an amazing son, and the fact that I was never able to tell you this myself only solidifies what kind of a person I am. I screwed up, kid. I screwed up big time. I won't even ask for your forgiveness because we both know I don't deserve it. Take care of Sammy for me, and let him know I love him.**_

_**I love you, son.**_

Dean read the entry over and over again until his vision blurred. A few tears slipped down his cheeks, and he quickly swiped them away. This couldn't be right, he thought, rereading the words over and over again. Dean honestly couldn't recall the last time his father had told him that he'd loved him. He remembered hearing it a few times when he was little, before his mother had died. Dean had just assumed that any love his father had had died with their mother.

Dread began to invade Dean's body, snaking up his spine and spreading out through his chest to his arms and finally to his fingertips.

This note – it was a good-bye. His father had left them to go take care of that demon on his own, and wasn't expecting to come back from it. Dean felt like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. He couldn't let that happen. He just couldn't. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn't felt the cold gust of wind spiral around him as Sam came back through the door. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw his brother set two styrofoam boxes and a cup holder on the table to his left, and slide his jacket off. Sam met his gaze almost instantly, and worry quickly transformed his neutral features. "Dean, what's wrong?" he asked, bringing his hand up to his chin with his pinkie finger and thumb extended, the rest of his fingers bent, and tapped it twice.

Dean just stared at him, eyes haunted by the paper below him.

"Dean?" Sam inquired, sincere concern creasing his brow, showcasing lines of worry.

Dean glanced down at the journal, and slowly slid it across the bed towards his brother. Sam stared at him curiously for a moment before leaning over and picking the leather-bound book up. Dean watched his brother's eyes read over each line, and his face grow darker with each new sentence. "We can't let him do this," Dean signed once Sam's eyes had left the book, fingers moving gracefully and fluidly even though his hands were shaking. "We have to help him."

He didn't trust himself to speak right now. He knew how bad his voice would sound, and he didn't want Sam to hear it.

Sam set the journal back down on the bed and nodded. "Let's eat first, then we'll get out of here. I promise."

Dean hesitated, wanting so badly to tell his brother that the food could wait because the clock was ticking and their father needed them _right fucking now, _but he stilled his hands and forced himself to stand up. He saw Sam hovering, but ignored him and made his way over to the table without any help. He sat down and popped open the container, growing nauseous at the sight of the oatmeal, toast, and egg that were currently cooling in front of him. Sam tapped his hand, and he immediately glanced over at his brother.

"I wanted to get you soup, but they were only serving breakfast so it was the best that I could do," he signed, fingers moving slowly but steadily, a sad look in his eyes.

Dean signed 'O' and 'K' again, and picked up a slice of toast. He stared at it in disgust before finally tearing a piece off and putting it in his mouth. He chewed as fast as he could, the sick feeling staying with him still. He hated the way it felt like a lead weight as he swallowed it, and how it made his stomach feel heavy and full after consuming just the single piece of bread. He managed to eat half of the oatmeal before he closed the container, deciding he'd had enough. It was better than the nothing he'd consumed for the past seven days, and he hoped it would make his brother happy. As happy as Sam could be in their current situation anyway.

He glanced over at Sam, and caught his younger brother staring at him, a distraught expression on his face.

"What?" Dean mouthed with a shrug, though it was much more subdued than his usual sharp and standoffish one.

Sam sighed and sat down his fork, bringing both hands up in front of his chest with all of his fingertips touching and then moved both hands in an outward motion. "Nothing," he said, with a shake of his head.

"Sammy?" Dean finger-spelled, narrowing his brow. "What?" he asked again with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Are you sure you're going to be able to do this? You're," and Sam hesitated on his words, hands faltering as he signed. "You're sick," and he held one hand up to his forehead with his middle knuckle bent, and one hand in front of his chest also with the middle knuckle bent and turned them both inwardly simultaneously.

Dean's brow narrowed further at that, and he could feel anger starting to creep into his movements. Sharply, he held his hand up in a 'five' shape, and thumped his chest with his thumb twice, indicating that he was perfectly fine. He could feel the argument that Sam promised wouldn't happen on the horizon.

"I'm just...I'm worried about you," Sam said, and Dean hated that he could see anguish and sorrow in his little brother's eyes.

"Don't be," Dean stated with his hand, bringing his hand upwards with his thumb up, using the the digit to brush underneath his chin and moved it in a forward motion. "Worry about dad," he signed, and Sam rolled his eyes.

"Dean," Sam started, but the middle Winchester cut him off, silencing him with his sharp hand movements.

"We can't let him die, Sam. He deserves a lot of things, but dying isn't one of them. So cut the shit, finish eating, and let's go." With that, Dean got up, threw his leftovers into the trash, and retrieved his boots. He slipped them on without even looking at his brother, and started collecting his things, stuffing them all into his duffel. He was still a little shaky, but he told himself that it was because he was angry, not because he'd only consumed around two hundred calories. "I'll be waiting out in the car," he stated with his hand, finger-spelling the word 'CAR', and snatched the keys from off the table, hurriedly making his way out the door before Sam could protest.

He walked over to the Impala and opened the trunk, tossing his bag in and slamming it shut. He quickly unlocked the driver's side door and got in, putting the keys in the ignition and starting it. His gaze fell on the motel room door, and once again, he was hit with a fresh wave of guilt. He sighed and rubbed his hands together, cold air swirling from the vents, but the action did nothing to warm him.

He knew things had to change soon. He just wished it wasn't so damned hard. His gaze fell to his fingers and he could see how bony they were. Hell, his ring wouldn't even fit on his finger anymore. It just fell off. He was going to kill himself if he kept going at the rate he was, and he knew it. He was still exhausted, and figured that somewhere in the sixteen hour drive to Chicago, they were going to have to switch places because he'd just be too fucking tired to go on.

His gaze shot up when he felt cold air pour into the car. He hadn't even realized Sam had come out, let alone walked up to the Impala. Dean watched his brother toss his bag into the backseat, and slam the door shut before climbing in on the passenger side.

"Ready?" Dean asked with his hands, bringing them both up and crossing his middle finger on each hand over his index while the rest of his fingertips touched. He then moved them in a straight line to his right.

Sam nodded, and Dean put the car in reverse, backing out and pulling out of the lot and onto the highway, Chicago bound.

**A/N – First off, I just want to simultaneously apologize for taking so long to update, and thank each and every single one of you for your high patience level. I can't thank you all enough for the wonderful support and reviews you've left for this story. So twaddletoe, Guest, Shara Raizel, Dee2436, Stryder2008, TreenBean, Carla888, dandy44, renniespice, WeFallTogetherNoMore, Anon, Reader, HPSmallCharm, KimiUzumaki, LoveHasNoHeart, and every single one of you other beautiful people that have followed this story or faved it, THANK YOU! :) I hope this chapter sufficed for now, and as a fair warning, I foresee there only being three or four left. So once again, thank you, thank you, thank you. **


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